


Cloak and Mask

by Anon_E_Miss



Series: The Polihexian Waltz [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers AU - Fandom
Genre: AU, M/M, Nobleverse, Other, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past Rape/Non-con, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, dubcon, shitty parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-12-14 12:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 112,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11783433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_E_Miss/pseuds/Anon_E_Miss
Summary: Ascending to the throne of Polihex was never part of Jazz's life plan. Having lived in exile the majority of his life, he must fake the accents of his court or face humiliation. After being attacked by the former Crown Prince of Polihex, and and almost revealing his glitch to the Praxian People, Prowl, the second son of the Emperor of Praxus has been given to Jazz not as a consort but as a courtesan. With the spectre of Prowl's glitch, and Jazz's less than noble upbringing what future lies in store for Polihex. With so much turmoil and self-doubt, can these two find happiness together? And will Ricochet return to punish the brother that took his place, or the mech that was his undoing?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/10 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn/half a quartex  
> Quartex: Month/2 decaorn  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/400 mega-cycles/16 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles
> 
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”
> 
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.
> 
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

Smokescreen held a crystal goblet filled with engex as his optics stared off out the window of his opulent sitting room. His mood wasn't celebratory, despite the rather fantastic stake he had won that afternoon. There was something in the atmosphere of the palace that made the plating of his doorwings tingle, and not in a pleasant manner. As he toyed with the stem of his goblet, Smokescreen wonder just what could be causing his ill ease. The obvious answer would be his Honoured Procreator, the Emperor of Praxus. His procreator’s mood had been even darker than normal, more volatile of late. In his, somewhat, expert opinion as a trained psychologist, Emperor Veneer's emotional subroutines were in need of tweaking. Actually, wiping him completely clean and reprogramming him as a music box would probably be a vast improvement, but then Smokescreen was a touch biased. The Emperor had always been a cold, rigid mech. He ruled like a god-Emperor, with his right to rule being a divine gift. His subjects were in awe of him, his court worshiped at his peds, and his creations lived in fear of him.

The fact that Veneer was having one of his moods would not general concern Smokescreen. He had long since given up on pleasing his. Procreator, never originator, origin, Veneer would not tolerate being referred to as the originator of his three princes. He was there procreator. They had no progenitor(s) because Veneer had never name the mech(s) that had kindled with him. All Smokescreen knew was that none of his siblings or himself shared a progenitor. Each of the three princes were flawed in some imagined or real way and Veneer placed the blame, in each case, on the sire.

Veneer had carried his heirs, according to court whispers, because of the rumours of his own illegitimacy. Smokecreen's grand-originator had carried on many affairs in the later years of his tenure as consort causing questions to be raised about the legitimacy of Veneer, who had been kindled early on. There would be no questions of legitimacy for Veneer's heirs, by carrying them, he had made certain that no one would question their right to call themselves Imperial Sons of Praxus. He might have carried the three sparks, first Smokescreen, then Prowl and finally Bluestreak, next to his own spark but Veneer felt no great love of his creations. To call him a cold disciplinarian was too generous, as far as Smokescreen was concerned. The Emperor was sparkless, so far as it came to his creations. They were pawns to be used as he saw fit.

In their ways, all three brothers rebelled against their creator's machinations, with Smokescreen's defiance of court protocol, etiquette and propriety being the most obvious. He gambled exorbitant sums, uncaring how much he might lose and instead of taking the position of Lord of Medicine for Praxus, Smokescreen practised psychiatry in a small, public practice. The second son, Prowl was more subtle in his rebellion. Ever the dutiful prince, his defiance was to throw his entire focus into his position in the Enforcers. Though Veneer would have preferred Prowl attend the court and actually act like a proper prince, he could not publicly scold his second son for serving Praxus with such devotion, after all, the Praxian population loved the second son’s dedication. Young Bluestreak, actually rebelled the least but earned the most ire. His spark was too kind, his speech too quick and prone to nattering and even stuttering. As a youngling and even now that he had received his adult upgrades, Bluestreak kept his lessers, commoners.

Though it might have been Bluestreak who received the sharpest verbal rebukes, it was actually dutiful Prowl that received the bulk of Veneer's scorn. Cool, brilliant, even tempered Prowl was, on the outside, Veneer's idle offspring. He was devoid of vice and he never showed strong emotion. Prowl was very literally what the Emperor had demanded Smokescreen to be but Veneer would never be satisfied, let alone proud of Prowl, no matter his accomplishments as an Enforcer. The only emotions Veneer displayed towards his second son were anger and contempt.

Outwardly cool as he was, Prowl was not beloved by the Praxian populace but he was respected and in some circle, revered, certainly his service to Praxus was universally adored, and so Veneer's contempt was generally only ever fully revealed in private. But of late, Veneer had been more vocal with his displeasure at Prowl's insurmountable flaws, seemingly unconcerned by who heard.

The scandal with Prince Ricochet, and Prowl's involvement in the debacle, had lit a malignant rage in Veneer. That Prowl would have dared speak against him in the presence of his court had broken any control the Emperor had ever had over his temper. Veneer's glossa had become so vicious of late that his courtiers, noblemechs and servants were all walking on crystal shards. Yes, it was this growing storm that had Smokescreen's nerves on edge. However before he could contemplate further, the doors to his private chambers slid apart with a loud whoosh.

“Prowl?” Smokescreen said as he caught sight of his brother. He was immediately taken aback by the sight. The ever unflappable Prowl was trembling with barely contained emotion. On his back, his doorwings flared and fluttered madly.

“Have you seen this?” The son of the second rank asked, with his field flared out, crashing against Smokescreen. The elder brother was taken aback at the force of the emotion within it. Humiliation, disbelief, fear. With each passing nanosecond the tidal wave of emotion became stronger and wilder, telltale signs of an impending processor crash.

Prowl forced a datapad into Smokescreen's servos. A quick scan of the pad revealed it to be the bonding contract between Praxus and Polihex, promising Prowl as Conjunx Endura to the Hereditary Prince of Polihex. Shock froze Smokescreen's spark as he saw the changed to the contract that had been in the works for nearly a vorn. Smokescreen's optics flew from the datapad and he locked optics with his younger brother. The shock gave way to rage at the sight of his beloved brother's handsome faceplates contorted with despair.

“He means to sell me as nothing more than shareware,” Prowl exclaimed over the clattering of his plating. "I will be nothing more than a concubine! He has clearly written there will be no penalty from Praxus should I be discarded for being 'displeasing'!"

“We can fix this, Prowl,” the elder brother soothed as he reached to hold his shaking brother. Beneath his servos, Smokescreen felt cables and joints of Prowl's arms tighten and the temperature of his plating rise.

"No, Smokecreen" the younger brother whispered. "The contract is between the Emperor of Praxus and the Sovereign Prince of Polihex. My glyph, my consent, is not required. He's throwing me away, Smokey... I cannot..."

The light behind Prowl's optics dimmed to black and his joints whined as they seized and locked. Smokescreen let out a sigh of resignation. Well versed in his brother's crashes, Smokescreen waited arms open, for Prowl's locked joints to released. When they did, Prowl's frame sagged and went limp in Smokescreen's arms. With great care, Smokescreen carried Prowl to the elder Praxian's berthroom and laid him out on the soft berth. Experience and then medical training had taught Smokescreen how to reboot Prowl immediately, even after a such bad crash.

Prowl had emerged from their originator with a hyper active logic computer and an emotional centre that did not connect correctly with his central processor. Veneer had seen no major issue with the fault in Prowl's emotional centre, but had seen great potential in his logic computer.

Intending for his creations to stand out as superior to their peers, each prince was given a modification early in their lives. Smokescreen had been given the choice as a youngling and had elected to have a the modification that was a play on his name. Veneer had elected to make the choice for his progressive offsprings. Prowl had only been a sparkling, still chattering away in a mix of Cybertronian and binary clicks when the Emperor had ordered a revolutionary battle computer to be installed in his second creation’s developing processor. The first medic commitioned had refused and then had been promptly banished. The second had installed the battle computer, linking it to Prowl's logic computer, and creating what would become known as Prowl’s Advanced Tactical Systems, or ATS.

The crashes had begun almost immediately. Sparkling Prowl had nott been able to laugh or to cry or to live without the threat of a crash. Instead of admitting his mistake and having the mod removed, Veneer had turned his back on Prowl, banishing him to a remote palace, deeming him weak and faulty. By some miracle, Prowl had lived long enough to receive his youngling upgrades. At first, Smokescreen had thought that the glitch had been resolved but his hopes had been dashed when three stellar-cycles into Prowl's younglinghood, his brother had suffered a crash. Prowl had been able to explain the cause by that point, as he understood it. If he lost control of his emotions or if something threw his ATS through a loop, he was likely to but not certain to, crash. Smokescreen had helped Prowl hide the crashes than came with the coming stellar-cycles, and Veneer had been tricked into allowing his second son to return to court in time to see Bluestreak emerge. Unfortunately, a poorly timed crash had revealed Prowl's glitch to their procreator. Had it not been for the question it would have raised in court, Veneer would have banished Prowl again. Instead, Prowl had received his adult upgrades, had enlisted in the Enforcers, and had avoided court and Veneer whenever possible. That much should have pleased Veneer but in the end, Prowl's continued existence was enough to anger the emperor.

Nothing had changed. Smokescreen knew that the violent contraction of his cables would result in a frame wide ache in Prowl that would linger for joors, if not mega-cycle. Though the elder brother knew how to bring Prowl around from his crashe, giving his self-repair systems time to work was kinder. He would online on his own in due time. Certain that Prowl not be disturbed here, Smokescreen ordered the lights in his berthroom off and stormed out of his private quarters. He passed many a court hanger-on, and servant, and every mech and femme backed quickly away as they felt the angry lash of his field. All those familiar with the relationship between Emperor and heir knew what was coming. Some made themselves scarce. Some sought out friends to share the juicy gossip before any other glossa could, a few of the bravest, and perhaps stupidest would hover by the door in hopes of overhearing what would be said.

“You slag-sucking Pit Spawn,” Smokescreen yelled as he stormed into his creator's meeting room. He waved the vile datapad in his servo. It did not matter at all that Emperor Veneer was in the presence of his advisers. If anything, Smokescreen relished the audience. “How dare you do this to Prowl?”

“Prowl is my creation to do with as a choose,” Veneer replied. “And I will be rid of his shameful presence at long last.”

“Your shame, not his!” The heir retorted, smashing the datapad to pieces on his creator's desk. "You ordered that accursed mod installed, you insisted it not be removed. Any difficulties Prowl has had are your doing. They don't reflect on him. They don't reflect on his value!"

“Prowl has only the value I give him,” the Emperor snarled. "He allowed those outside the inner circle of my court to see his flaw and then he dared to speak against me!? He should have grovelled at my peds and begged forgiveness for allowing himself to be vulnerable. I will not allow my line to be tainted with his glitch any longer."

“And if the Polihexians discover the glitch?” Smokescreen asked, forcing his doorwings to still as he glared at his originator.

“They will no doubt repudiate him as I would if only my subjects would not object,” Veneer said and he smiled coldly. "And he will never be welcomed back to Praxus. Should Polihex disavow Prowl, he will have no help from me."

“I promise you this,” the heir hissed. "I will always support Prowl. You won't be Emperor forever. You can banish me but you can't disinherit me under Praxian law. There's nothing you can threaten me with that will stop me from protecting Prowl."

“Prowl will be the property of the Hereditary Prince of Polihex in a quartex,” the Emperor dismissed Smokescreen's promise. Veneer had millenia yet before he joined the Well. “If he's smart he'll do well to learn to moan how Prince Ricochet likes.”

Veneer flew back against the wall as Smokescreen's fist hit is jaw. No one interfered. So long as Smokescreen didn't grab a weapon or attack again, the guards would not move to stop him. They knew full well that interference at this point would insult the Emperor, suggesting that he couldn't protect himself against is feckless heir.

“I control your allowance, Smokescreen,” Veneer said, cold and calm. "You may serve Praxus in that retched clinic but it is the Praxian coffers that pay your wage. Not a credit from your accounts will leave Praxus, Smokescreen. Do you think you can protect Prowl without funds?"

“May Unicron feast on your spark,” Smokescreen cursed. His originator had Smokescreen at less of a disadvantage then he thought. Veneer was honour bound to pay Smokescreen's gambling debts should the prince not. Forget the self-imposed limits Smokescreen had always operated under. Now he would bet as wildly and exorbitantly as he saw fit. His winnings would be a secret nest egg, and Veneer himself would be forced to cover his losses. If Prowl ever had to flee Polihex, Smokescreen was determined to have the funds to help him. And in the mean time, the heir would enjoy thumbing his olfactory ridge at his sire with every opportunity.

***

The Sovereign Prince was dying. He might live another stellar-cycle but in all likelihood he had only a few quartexes left. There was precious little time left to set his affairs in order, and not just the affairs of Polihex. While he had always prided himself on being a good ruler to his subjects, Greyshield knew full well that he had been an inadequate progenitor. Worse, he had been blind to the severe deficiencies in his heir. Thankfully, even in the little time he had left, it was enough for Greyshield to undo a few wrongs.

He was unable to rise from his berth but Greyshield still exuded ultimate authority. At his side was the viceroy, a foreigner called Tracks. Though not a Polihexian, Tracks was Greyshield's most trusted adviser and he knew the Polihexian court well. The Urayan knew all the players in the court and all of the various schemes and plots the competing clans always had brewing.

Greyshield's weak spark made him tired, which would only make the confrontation to come all the more overwhelming. But he would do his duty to Polihex and he would do his duty to his creations, bitter a duty as it was. The carved doors to his berthchamber opened, and his creations entered. They were often called twins though they had been kindled with different originators. Both consort-kindled and concubine-kindled had separated on the same mega-cycle, only joors apart with the concubine-kindled having separated first. In deference to the Consort and his clan, it had been Consort Raisonne’s creation who had been named heir.

Ricochet had been kindled with Raisonne, an act of duty. Standing in front of him, despite the great scandal that he had wrought, Ricochet remained cocky and smug, casually jostling his brother. Jazz, who had been kindled with Punch, Greyshield's chief spy in an act, if not of love, at least of pleasure. To his credit it, Jazz ignored Ricochet’s jostling, all the while keeping h balance. The consort-lindled was charming and good natured, but equally capable of making hard and sometimes dark choices in his function as a spy and assassin. In his function as a king’s agent, Greyshield knew his creation was not known as Jazz but as Meister.

“I see you remain shameless, Ricochet,” Greyshield scolded as he scowled at the prince. "You have brought a black mark to my name and to Polihex itself. Though I have long allowed myself to be blind to your true nature, I see it now, and I will not ignore it. You have a dark spark, unsuited to the position of power I have groomed you for. If you had shown repentance, I would allow you to remain in my court but I am neither deaf nor blind. I have heard that your behaviour remains unchecked within these walls, and I can see your shamelessness with my own optics. I am banishing you from Polihex. You are no longer my heir, Ricochet. I have struck your name from the tablet of princes as though you never emerged. Now, Jazz I believe you understand why I have recalled you from Uraya. You are now the Hereditary Prince of Polihex and you will be Sovereign Prince when I grey."

“’Genitor!” Ricochet exclaimed. “You cannot...”

“I have!” The sovereign prince roared. "Your originator, and his clan cannot save your plating this time, Ricochet. Get out of my sight. If I lay optics on you again, I will strike you down myself!"

“Sir?” Jazz spoke only when Ricochet had gone. He was visibly at a loss for words. "I don't understand. Wha’d he do?"

“He humiliated me,” Greyshield explained, though he kept the worst to himself. “He brawled and fornicated publicly in Praxus, and was expelled from the empire on pain of imprisonment.”

“Maybe it was just a misunderstandin’?” Jazz offered, weakly.

“Ricochet as always had a cruel streak,” the sovereign said. "You were victim of it often enough. It was among the reason you and Punch remained outside of Polihex for so long."

“I remember,” Jazz whispered. "But it was just sparklin’ junk... He's not really evil, just petty."

“I will not have Polihex suffer such a spark as prince,” Greyshield said, firm in his decision. "I have little time, and little strength to teach you all you need to be in order for you to be a worthy sovereign to Polihex. But when I am gone, Viceroy Tracks will continue in my stead."

Jazz looked to between his progenitor, and the viceroy in disbelief. 

“I know this was nothing you ever expected Jazz,” Greyshield said. "And I know you would take comfort in Punch's support, however the scandal of disinheriting Ricochet will cause enough anger amongst the Consort's clan. I cannot risk more strife."

“I understand,” Jazz replied, in a seriousness that better matched his persona at Meister, than his natural self.

“The first order of business is your bonding contract,” Greyshield explained.

“Bondin’...” Jazz murmured. 

“It is to our great fortune that Emperor Veneer of Praxus remains inclined to give his second son to Polihex,” the prince said. "In fact, I have received the newly edited contract today. When I sign it, Prowl, Sovereign Son of Praxus will be promised to you... as your Official Amica Endura."

“What the slag?” Jazz yelped. Greyshield released a long vent as his old spark stuttered. Before his tired optics, new heir and viceroy shared a look of confusion.

“Did you ask for this amendment, my Lord?” The Viceroy asked, and Jazz looked to his progenitor, clearly looking for the answer to the same question.

“I did not, and I am not entirely inclined to celebrate it either,” Greyshield rumbled. “My spies in Praxus tell me that the Prince of the Second Rank is not highly valued by the Emperor.”

“This does not make Prince Prowl a great asset to Polihex,” Tracks explained to Jazz before the newly minted heir could ask.

“I'm hearin' a but...” Jazz said, guilelessly.

“Veneer will not be Emperor forever,” Greyshield said. "The Prince of the First Rank is a devoted brother. When he ascends the Helix Throne, Prince Prowl's value to both Polihex and Praxus will increase exponentially."

“The Prince's seals are incomplete,” Tracks explained further. "To what extent is not known. This is considered scandalous in Praxus. It is possible that Emperor Veneer wishes for any resulting scandal to be as far from his court as possible."

“I don't give a frag about seals,” Jazz said. There was a glint of warning in his voice, as if to warn Greyshield and the viceroy from trying to make an issue of that defect.

“Good,” the sovereign said and he nodded his approval. "In which case I will send a courier to Praxus to deliver the signed contract. The chambers held by my last Amica Endura are ready to be renovated before the Praxian Prince arrives.

***

“I'm sure he's a nice mech,” Bluestreak babbled, optimistic and innocent. "I'm sure he'll be kind. You’e such a good mech, Prowl, I'm sure he'll be kind."

“Thank you, Blue,” Prowl replied. He did not share is younger brother's optimism, but then, Prowl had always been prone to pessimism. It had been enough of a miracle to learn that Ricochet had been disinherited, and banished by the Lord of Polihex. Even with Smokescreen's assurances that Ricochet had indeed been banished from Polihex for the crimes he had committed in Praxus, Prowl was not altogether certain the mech would not make an appearance at some point or another. Besides that, who was to say that Prince Jazz, recalled from Primus only knows where, was not as bad or worse than his brother?

Prowl wished Smokescreen were present. Standing on the tarmac, the Second Son dearly wished for some last words of encouragement from his elder brother. But the Emperor had summoned Smokescreen to a council meeting and the Prince of the First Rank had been unable to escape. At least Veneer had neglected to curtail Bluestreak's activities, for which Prowl had offered a quick prayer of thanks to Primus. Though he felt the need to be that much stronger and steadier for his younger brother, Bluestreak's presence was still a blessing.

Far too soon, the transport arrived and Prowl was forced to say good-bye. Bluestreak clung to his chassis, both promising and begging that he would/could visit him in Polihex soon. Prowl doubted that Veneer would ever allow it and he was equally doubtful that the newly crown Sovereign Prince of Polihex would allow it either. Mere Amica Endura did not receive visitors. Still, the Second Son wrapped his arms around his beloved brother and swore they would see each other again, and that he would write often.

As the door to the transport close, Prowl prayed fervently that he would somehow see his brothers again, and that his letters would not be destroyed before they could reach their intended audience. A bolt of inspiration struck Prowl. He would send his letters to Smokescreen's medical practice. Smokescreen could be trusted to deliver his letters to Bluestreak, and for that matter to Mirage.

Though it was a large transport, furnished with plush seats and sumptuous art, and capable of holding a dozen mechs in comfort, Prowl was alone. The Praxian Ambassador, one Lord Grandfall, and a selection of Praxian courtiers and servants were already in Polihex, making certain all was ready for Prowl's arrival.

Isolation did not normally disturb Prowl but in this instant, it felt almost suffocating. He wished he could weep or rail but did neither. Instead, Prowl slid a datapad from his subspace and turned it on. Every time Prowl thought of it, he had to fight the urge to purge his tanks. It was both a parting gift and a parting shot from his procreator, given to him the last thing night cycle.

Veneer had called Prowl to the throne room. He had said nothing to Prowl, only looked down at his creation from his raised throne. A servant had handed Prowl the “gift” and with a cruel smirk, Prowl had been dismissed. With a mixture of dread and curiosity, he had turned on the datapad and had begun to read. Prowl had only managed to read a small segment of the datapad before he had tossed the vile thing on to his desk. The notation at the beginning of the datapad had been his procreator's final good-bye.

You'll do well to learn how to suck a spike. Before long, Polihex and it's little Prince will learn of your shame, you'll be lucky to find work in a brothel.

Doorwings shaking as Prowl forced himelf read the notation again, and still further. The “gift” was a an instruction manual for courtesans. Though his tanked rolled, Prowl tried to force himself to read more but he could not get passed the first few segments. He subspaced the datapad and buried his faceplates in his servos.

“Have a little hope, Prowl,” a familiar, disembodied voice spoke from across the transport. So wrapped up in his own processor, Prowl had not acknowledged the odd readings from his doorwings that would have warned him of the hidden mech's presence.

“Mirage?” Prowl asked, optics bright with surprise. He flicked his doorwings attempting to locate the Towers mech. “What are you doing on this transport?”

“I thought I would travel in style, on Veneer’s credits,” Mirage replied, flippantly. He remained concealed but the sound of his voice, let Prowl track him to the lounge to his right. “It would happen that I am to pay a visit to Polihex this quartex.”

“You are coming to court?” The Praxian inquired.

“No, I'm far to lowly a noblemech to drop in unannounced,” the Towers mech said. "I'm just taking a holiday, as it were. With any luck, I will be noticed by those with the credits to woo my attention, and perhaps garner an invitation."

“I see,” Prowl replied. It had been a faint hope, dashed with as much speed as Prowl had expected. Still, it would have been preferable to have a familiar face amongst the small party that would be introducing him to the prince.

“There's no palace or prison I can't break into,” Mirage offered, every bit the arrogant spy. “I'll visit, have no fear.”

***

“Your Highness,” the viceroy called to to the seemingly empty room. "This is unbecoming of a Sovereign. the Prince and his entourage are here! It is time for you to make your appearance."

Greyshield had been entombed only six quartexes earlier. He had only lingered six quartexes after naming Jazz as his heir. In those quartexes, Jazz had developed a fondness for his ‘genitor that he had never had before. He mourned greater than he had ever thought he would. This meeting felt too soon. Jazz did not want an Amica Endura, certainly not one arranged for him. But the contract had long been signed and delivered quartexes ago.

“For pity's sake, Jazz!” Tracks snapped, slipping into the young prince's personal name as he did when he was frustrated. “They've been waiting for seven joor!”

“I don't want'm here,” Jazz whined from his perch far above the floor. The flying buttress he was draped looked directly over the throne.

“And I highly doubt HE wants to be here,” the viceroy shot back. “This is a prince, practically gift wrapped, handed to you as a BERTHWARMER and you can't even be bothered to be on time for your introduction?”

“Fine,” the young sovereign grumbled, feeling the bitter bite of guilt, he slid down a pillar and landed both silently and gracefully on his peds.

The elaborately etched doors to the Gallery opened and Jazz entered with an air of confidence and ennui. This was not the first time he'd worn the mask of entitled aristocrat but he bristle under it nonetheless. He was to 'face this prince and he could nott even speak in his own voice. It was a mercy that Polihexian favoured visors so Jazz's was nothing unusual. Optics were easy to read, a tell Jazz couldn't afford. He filled his field with more confidence and only a hint of interest or apology, and let it emanate out. Let his councillors, let this prince and his flock just try and guess what was really going on in his processor.

“Your Highness, we've been waiting!” Lord Keystone, Ambassador to Praxus proclaimed as he saw Jazz enter the throne after several long joor.

“You should really review my schedule before making such grand plans, Lord Keystone,” Jazz scolded, perfectly mimicking Keystone's accent. Technically, he had not been asked what time would be convenient for him to receive his guests, his councillors had given him the time as they tended to. Having the chance to publicly call them on it, didn't make this meeting worth the dread or angst but it was a nice treat.

“My apologies, my Lord for our error,” the Ambassador prostrated himself quite spectacularly. “Would it be acceptable to introduce you to your esteemed guests?”

“Will you, please,” the Sovereign Prince replied, with all the false dignity he could. He managed to avoid looking to smug as he glanced back at the viceroy.

-“Very nice, your Highness,” Tracks said over his private comm channel. “You may, however, be overdoing the accent.”

-“Let me have my fun,” Jazz replied. “I could go back to my natural accent...”

-“Primus save us all,” the viceroy replied.

“Your Majesty, you have met Lord Grandfall, Emissary of Praxus?” Lord Keystone asked.

"I have, early in the stellar-cycle. Ambassador, I hope you enjoyed your time at home," Jazz said, greeting the Ambassador. The Praxian bowed gracefully, rotating his doorwings in an elegant, sweeping gesture.

“I did, thank you, your Eminence,” the Praxian replied. “I am, however, quite happy to return to your handsome city.”

There were five Praxians, a small party considering one of them was a Prince, but Praxians rarely seemed to venture far from their empire. Perhaps for the Praxian court such a small entourage was the norm. Or perhaps, it was all a prince given as Amica Endura deserved. Jazz, curiosity peeked, would have to find out.

Three other lords, from three separate Praxian houses were introduced before the Ambassador gestured to the sternest looking mech, Jazz had ever laid optics on. The mech was white with black accents and a sharp red chevron at above his brow ridge. Jazz noted that he looked every bit the Enforcer, he was simply missing the glyphs.

“Your Majesty, it is my great honour to introduce his Royal Highness, Second Son of the First House, Prince of the Second Rank, Prowl of Praxus,” the Ambassador exclaimed with an air of gravity. It was indeed the severe looking mech who stepped forward, bowing with an oddly stiff grace as he did. Jazz watched him move, marvelling at the stillness of the mech's doorwings and the economy of his movements. Though his movements were fluid, they had none of the drama or elegance of the other Praxian lords.

“Prince Prowl,” the Polihexian greeted. "Welcome to Polihex. I hope your journey was a smooth one."

“Thank you, my Lord,” the Prince replied, gravely. “I hope that our arrival has not come at an inconvenient time.”

“I think your timing is just about perfect,” Jazz replied, flirting with and teasing the stern Prince. The Prince gave him a small frown before nodding demurely.  
.  
Jazz chatted the visiting lords as his own lords joined the gathering. Engex flowed freely. He observed the Praxian Prince all the while. Prowl sipped on his engex slowly. While most of the Polihexian and Praxian noblemechs were on their second or third serving, the Praxian prince, like Jazz, had not finished his first. Whether he didn't have a taste for the stuff or he simply didn't want to become intoxicated, Jazz couldn't say. He filed the observation away for further consideration.

-“My Lord you are capable of charming life from a rock, I would suggest you use it on your intended,” the viceroy suggested. “Do not think for an instant that ignoring him will not going unnoticed.”

-"'M not ignoring him," Jazz countered. “I'm watching him.”

Like a predator. Like “Meister”.

-“And that did not sound remotely inappropriate for the situation,” Tracks replied. “You've time enough to ogle him, for Primus' sake talk to the mech.”

“Prince Prowl, I understand you served the Praxian Enforcers, what was your focus?” Jazz asked. All optics turned to him and then to the quiet prince. One couldn't, after all ignore the reigning Prince of Polihex.

“I commanded the Criminal Intelligence Section, Your Serene Highness,” the Prince replied. His tone was without inflection but for just an instant, there was a flicker of surprise in his field and a question in his optics.

“Intriguing,” the Polihexian said. “It sounds as though it could have been dangerous work.”

“I was rarely required to put myself in harms way,” the Praxian explained. “Most of my function focused on tactical planning.”

“The Prince was a fine administrator,” Lord Grandfall praised. “Through his diligence, his division achieved the highest close rate in one hundred vorn, 87%, I believe.”

“Impressive,” Jazz said. Tracks echoed his sentiment. Both knew that crimes often went unsolved or unresolved. A close rate that high was an impressive feat.

"87.32%," Prowl amended. "The clearance rate of investigations is an administrative statistic. It does not signify that an arrest has been made, let alone that a guilty verdict has been made in the Hall of Justice. It simply means that a suspect has been identified."

“Impressive nonetheless,” the sovereign said. "Such an accomplishment is worthy of praise. You must be diligent at any task, Highness."

“I do my best, my Lord,” Prowl replied. Even after he had finished speaking the prince kept his optics on Jazz, to the trained optic he was visibly wary.

-“Well there you go, you've scared him,” Tracks grumbled through the comm.

-“Probably thinkin' of some horrible innuendo,” Jazz replied. “Don't worry, I've got this mech.”

“Gentle mechs,” he said after a short time. “I don't remember, how long will your party be remaining?”

“Lords Fireglass, Tempest and Burnover will be returning to Praxus within the orn,” Lord Grandfall explained. “I will remain for the remainder of the quartex. I apologize that I cannot remain longer, my Conjunx Endura has entered his confinement and I must attend him.”

“Congratulations, Lord Grandfall,” Jazz said. "No apology is necessary! My councillors hoped to host a ball in honour of Prince Prowl's arrival. In three mega-cycles? My lords can remain that long?"

“Of course, your Eminence,” the ambassador replied. “We would all be honoured to attend.”

-“A ball, Jazz?” Track asked. "In three mega-cycles? Your councillors will be falling over themselves to make the arrangements so quickly."

-“I know,” Jazz preened. “Seems like fair punishment.”  
***

The berth in his designated chambers was too firm to be especially comfortable to a Praxian frame-type but Prowl couldn't bring himself to care. He was not in the least bit surprised that his furnishings and belongings had been delayed in Praxus. It would not surprise him at all if his procreator was having a bonfire at this very instant. Though he was exhausted in frame and spark, Prowl made no move to lay down. His ATS was far too active to allow recharge protocols to initiate.

While he was inept enough at social interactions, Prowl was not so oblivious as not to have recognized that His Serene Highness had flirted with him, quite blatantly. The Praxian knew that the nature of his seals was known to the Polihexian. Perhaps the mech thought that Prowl was some licentious thing. He was going to be terribly disappointed to discovered that Prowl knew nothing about pleasing a mech, not with his mouth, and not with his frame. A distressed shudder passed through his frame as his ATS added that thought to their analysis. If Prince Jazz expected a trained courtesan, he was not going to be at all happy with Prowl. Not at all.

“I am willing to admit that the sovereign prince of Polihex is not entirely what I had expected,” a familiar voice spoke across the room.

“I must agree,” Prowl replied without looking for the other mech. Mirage would be using his field disruptor and as a result would be invisible. He wasn't terribly surprised that Mirage had been observing the gathering. Though there had been no way to detect his presence with the number of mech presence, Prowl had suspected that he might be present. "I am in good health, Mirage. No glitch is threatening."

“Pfft,” Mirage snorted. "I know you're troubled but I also know you don't glitched that easily. I'm here to ease your recharge. Ricochet is not here. His Serene Highness, Prince Jazz has not lifted his banishment."

“Thank you,” the prince said, slumping forward, his doorwings falling too, and dragging a single servo down his faceplates. “That is a relief.”

“If I can find out where he was sent, I will tell you,” the noble spy promised.

“Is that why you've actually come to Polihex” Prowl asked.

“It's certainly one motivating factor” Mirage replied. “The Spymaster is curious as to how Polihex will receive you and what it means for the Torus States and for Praxus.”

“Take care in manipulating your progenitor,” the prince warned. “She will not take it lightly.”

“Allow me to manage my procreator,” the noblemech said, primly. “I am allowed to have personal motives as long as I serve the Crystal Emperor at the same time.”

“I will have to trust you there,” Prowl replied. He sighed and stared off into space. His doorwings flicked here and there belaying his ill ease. Finally, he asked: "What am I to do, Mirage? This mech is expecting a prince who is no better than a courtesan. How am I to please him? Do I even wish to?"

“I can't speak for what you wish, Prowl,” Mirage sighed. “Be who and what you are, if that isn't enough for this prince, then he's a fool.”

“There is a clause in the contract that states that His Serene Highness is to bond with me if I produce an heir,” the Praxian revealed. "Can you think of a crueller basis to kindle? And yet that is my best hope to solidify my place here. I am sick thinking of it."

“Don't worry about that for now,” the Towers mech said. The berth beside Prowl compressed slightly as the lithe noblemech sat down. “All you can do it take one ‘cycle at a time.”

***

“Raisonne has retired from court,” Tracks revealed when arrived at the prince's office for their meeting.

“I was wonderin' when he was going to do that,” Jazz said. “Hung around longer than I thought 'e would.”

“I suspect Prince Prowl's arrival and the coming ball have solidified the idea that Ricochet will not be returning,” the viceroy offered. "Raisonne's only hope for continued influence in court was to have Ricochet seated on your throne. He knows better than to expect you to hold him in a place of honour given his mistreatment of Punch."

“Hmm, too right,” the prince hummed as he mused. "Do ya think his clan mighta suggested he retire to keep me happy? They gotta think that I might get snippy 'n punish'em for what 'e did to me and my o."

“That is a very real possibility,” Track's agreed. “And provided they make no moves to undermine your rule, I advise against plotting the clan's downfall.”

“I got no plan to wreak my revenge,” Jazz assured him. "My best revenge is bein' good prince. It'll boggle their 'lil processors."

“It's an odd way of looking at it but it does make some warped sense,” the Urayan said. He leaned back in his chair and looked at Jazz pointedly. "Now tell me, Jazz. What is your first impression of Prince Prowl."

“Are ya sure he's not a drone?” The Polihexian asked, not entirely joking. "Or a monk? How does a mech like that lose his seals by accident?"

“I have no answer for you,” Tracks said. "The Emperor of Praxus rules almost as a god. He is said never to smile, nor to laugh. Humour is beneath his dignity. I would think that he would have instructed his creations to mirror his image. Prince Prowl's comportment is likely a product of his upbringing."

“Ya suggestin' I look past the ice 'n take 'm to berth?” Jazz asked. "'Cause I'm tellin' ya, mech, I don't see how I can seduce 'm and he sure as frag ain't gonna seduce me. I don't think he'd even try."

“Attempt to get to know the prince,” the viceroy suggested. "The lack of emotional response may well be a shield... Much like your wit."

“We'll see,” the prince said, noncommittally.

***

End Chapter 1.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

“Your Imperial Highness,” Ambassador Grandfall greeted Prowl with the utmost formality and gravity, dipping his wings low, and back as he bowed. The indifference that the prince was accustomed to from members of court was eerily absent. Prowl dipped a doorwing in response, a gesture he knew had no grace or elegance. No matter how he had tried as a young mech, Prowl had never learned the casual grace most of his frame-kin had in speaking with their doorwings. Social isolation and an overactive processor were the key factors.

 

“Lord Grandfall,” Prowl acknowledged the Ambassador in the monotone he favoured, and he waited for the ambassador to chide him on his lack of elegance.

 

“The quiet of your doorwings will be a strength here,” the lord said, taking the younger Praxian by surprise. "We Praxian often delude ourselves into believe that those of wingless frame-types cannot read our unspoken language. Polihex's court is no different than that of Praxus. It is full of spies that serve many masters. To speak without care is a great danger."

 

“Thank you, Lord Grandfall,” the prince replied. He was deeply wary of the Ambassador. Grandfall would have to be a favourite of Veneer's to have such a position. Still, his glyphs rang true. “I will not forget your advice.”

 

“Of that I have no doubt,” Grandfall replied. “I do not believe you are capable of forgetting anything without physically deleting the memory.”

 

“Even then my ATS often retains back ups of purged memories as a fail safe,” Prowl revealed. While he felt compelled to share this information with the ambassador, he could not say, and felt all the more wary for it.

 

“A daunting thought,” the ambassador said. Prowl shifted is optics almost imperceptibly to the side, hoping to avoid the force of the grave mech's optics. The Ambassador's field radiated from the politician like a fine mist, with whispers of complex emotions; Prowl was taken aback when he teeked sympathy as the most prevalent emotion.

 

“Do you have counsel for me?” The prince asked. His ATS struggled to understand the presence of sympathy. Surely the Ambassador did not feel sorry for him. EM fields were easy enough to manipulate. Grandfall could certainly be falsifying his field to manipulate Prowl. What he could hope to gain, was the precise question Prowl's ATS hoped to answer.

 

“Much,” Grandfall replied. "I hope it was not presumptuous of me, but I requested servants to bring a light meal for us to consume as we speak. I noticed that you consumed very little at the gathering."

 

“Thank you, Sir,” Prowl said. “Both for your consideration and your counsel.”

 

That the Ambassador's company would be pleasant came as a mild shock to Prowl, a mech who found himself completely at ease with only three mechs. Grandfall must have assumed that Prowl's tank was bothering him, because the meal that arrived consisted largely of liquid fuel with a selection of additives, and a small plate of gelled energon rolled in calcite and celestine. His tank did not precisely rumble at the sight of fuel but Prowl did feel a pinch. Out of curiosity, he checked his fuel levels. 31.34% was hardly the lowest they had ever fallen to before Prowl had thought to seek out nourishment but it was low enough that his none essential system would switch to standby or go offline completely to save energy. His ATS, his single most energy consuming system was irrevocably set as essential and would not shutdown for such meagre a reason as energy preservation.

 

“It is my understanding that you are familiar with the traditional Praxian dances, Prince Prowl,” the Ambassador said as they sat opposite each other at a low table. Both the chairs and the tables were elaborately carved, with inlays of crystals and precious metals. The richness of the materials would not have been out of place in Praxus, the garish colours would have been.

 

“I am capable of following the appropriate pattern and steps, however that does not imply that I am proficient or elegant,” the Prince replied. It was not so much the in movement of his peds that Prowl found himself lacking but the corresponding movement of his doorwings. He was never certain if he flared them too little or too much, tipped to low or did not tip enough. The movements were meant to be natural, an instinctual response to the music. Prowl, was a hopless case.

 

“That is adequate,” Grandfall assured Prowl, more likely said to sooth the prince’s ego than actually truth. "The Polihexians are a frame-type with a passion for the arts. Dance and music are woven into the very fabric of their lives. They emerge to music and they join the well to it. It is pleasant enough when you adept to the constant stimulus. You will be expected, in time, to learn their most common dances but you will not be expected to be a master. I don't expect it will be taken poorly if you prefer to watch."

 

“Understood,” Prowl said. “Do you find the constant... noise uncomfortable at times?”

 

“At times I develop processor aches from the feedback from my doorwings,” the lord confirmed. “However, I find that lower their sensitivity from time to time reduces the discomfort.”

 

“I see,” the prince replied, his monotone gave way to a hint of ill ease, Ambassador Grandfall was an expert enough politician to catch the change.

 

“Even at their lowest setting, your doorwings will detect any movement behind your back,” Lord Grandfall reassured Prowl. "I would never step ped outside safe walls blind. At what setting to you generally keep your doorwing, if I may ask?"

 

“High in public settings and moderate when alone,” Prowl confessed. “It is the coding of an Enforcer to expect threats in unexpected places.”

 

“You may find that habit deeply painful here,” the ambassador said. “However, caution is never careless.”

 

As they refuelled, Ambassador Grandfall spoke in length about Polihex and its culture. The steady stream of information kept Prowl's ATS occupied. To say Praxian culture was different was an understatement. Where in Praxus it was taboo to casually touch another, Polihexians were a tactile frame-type. This was definitely going to be difficult, if not impossible to acclimatized to. Where frame maintenance, and bathing were a private matter in Praxus, it was something of a social affair amongst Polihexians. The Palace had a series of public oils baths and washracks for the nobles to share, and for still for the servants. Though Prowl's position as Official Amica Endura gave him the honour of a private washrack, it did possessed only a solvent shower, and a drier. Even still, bathing in his suite was not meant to be a private event, he was still expected possess a servant to assist him in this particular task, given his rank. True, most noble Praxians possessed attendants of the chamber, the Praxian prince had never been inclined to employee such a servant.

 

“Contraceptives are taboo for your station,” Ambassador Grandfall revealed. “It is considered a great honour to carry for His Serene Highness.”

 

“They encourage accidental carryings?” Prowl asked, perturbed. He placed his goblet on the table as the energon he had just consumed sat heavy in his tank.

 

“Not in all castes,” the ambassador explained. “It is the specific burden of both Consort and/or Amica Endura.”

 

“I see,” the prince replied, tonelessly. "I am aware that the contract affords me more rights if I carry successfully. It is a cold reason to bring forth new life."

 

“Take spark, Prince,” Grandfall offered. “It often takes stellar-cycles, if not vorns for a couple to kindle.”

“And for others it takes only one interface,” Prowl replied. "My procreator kindled easily, he and I both possess receptive sparks. It has often been said that my spark resembles his in all ways.”

 

“There is a kindness in you, I think, that was never in the Emperor,” Grandfall said. "We are not so far apart in age, His Majesty and I, and I spent many vorns in the Helix court as a youngling. Perhaps the caustic relationship between his procreators, and the endless rumours about his legitimacy were responsible, perhaps it was not in his spark to be kind. He was always pompous, always aware of his lofty rank, and always unforgiving of even the slightest mistake. Tell me something, Imperial Highness when you have encountered mechanisms less intelligent than yourself, and I imagine the vast majority of Enforcers, and mechanisms in general are, were you cruel to them? Did you demean them? Or did you work with their skill sets to achieve the highest rate of success?"

 

“How do you know this?” Prowl asked. It was alarming that a mech he had never spoken to before he had stepped ped in Polihex should know so much about him, and should have such a strong feeling about him.

 

“The Prince of the First Rank is likely the main reason I have not gone to the well,” Grandfall explained simply.

 

“I do not understand,” Prowl replied. “Did you attend Smokescreen's clinic?”

 

“My first Conjunx Endura and our two creations were murdered in the Kaonite Uprising,” the Ambassador revealed. An old grief filled his field, and as the elder Praxian spoke, he became almost brittle before Prowl’s optics. "I alone escaped. Their loss destroyed me. I found comfort in nothing, hope in nothing. I railed against the Gods, the Avatars, and the Saints. In equal terms I cursed Primus, the Guiding Hand, and Unicron, and begged for death. I retired from court, fled my ancestral home, and did all that I could to meet some fatal accident. I was not brave enough to snuff out my own spark, and when I did not befall some accident or another I took to drink and gambling to dull the pain."

 

“You did not meet Smokescreen at the clinic but at a gambling hell,” the prince said, a familiar flicker of despair passed over him. While his elder brother was a good mech, certainly a good sparked one, he was an unapologetic rakehell. Though Smokescreen’s behaviour was at least in part motivated by the shame and scandal it caused to their procreator, it had earned the heir a dubious reputation.

 

“That is correct,” Grandfall confirmed. "I was a terrible gambler. I refused to remain sober enough to improve either. Prince Smokescreen made discreet inquiries into my identity and my history, and learned of my tragedy. He offered me counsel, and I refused it, at first. He played at my table every dark-cycle. He guarded me from those that would take advantage of my inebriation to do me harm. And every dark-cycle he returned me my lost credits. Eventually, I spoke with him, and laid out my great grief and guilt. How was it fair and right that I survived when it had been my fault that they were in Kaon? He did not suggest that my family had simply been too good for this world, and that Primus had called them home.”

 

“I have wondered why something so callous is considered a polite statement of sympathy,” Prowl said.

 

“I was told this many times in the early vorns, and I have always hated it,” the Ambassador replied, appearing pleased by the young prince’s statement. “Your brother rarely said anything when we met together, he simply let me speak, scream, cry, whatever I needed to do from mega-cycle to mega-cycle. In the end he helped me overcome the guilt, the anger, and the grief. I had always been devote, before my family’s murder, and on the last day we spoke, Prince Smokescreen recommended I visit the Temple again. I did and by an act of chance I met the mech who has become my second Conjunx Endura there that very mega-cycle. This mech, who will soon deliver a new sparkling, not a replacement for what I have lost, like he is not a replacement for my first mate, but a new life for our new lives. Without His Imperial Highness, I would not have this life. Without him, I would not have the funds to support my new family. I owe him everything."

 

“Smokescreen would say that he served his function,” Prowl said. He was proud of his brother, and he wished that Smokescreen would apply himself to efforts like these, rather than spiting their procreator.

 

“He would and he has,” the Ambassador replied. “Nonetheless, it seems like the least I could do to give my thanks both to Smokescreen, and to Primus was to assist you on your new path.”

 

“You have my thanks,” the prince said. “And my hope for a long and happy life with your bonded mate.”

 

“Thank you,” Grandfall replied. “I can assure you it is my pleasure.”

 

***

 

After several joors, the dance instructor summoned from the Polihexian Dance Company proclaimed Prowl to be tolerable at the performing the steps of the Polihexian Dipat, but utterly failing at performing the Golden Cordax. Frankly, Prowl was comfortable enough with that. The Cordax was a scandalous dance, it all but mimicked interface. No respectable Praxian would ever dance such a dance, let alone an Imperial Prince. Given the expression of shock and discomfort on the faceplates of the Praxian Lords, he thought that they were scandalized simply watching him, although all but Grandfall seemed at least somewhat amused.

 

“Unless His Serene Highness himself requests Prince Prowl to perform the Cordax, it will not be necessary to attempt to instruct him further in this dance,” Ambassador Grandfall said. “It is not a dance for an Imperial of Praxus.”

“As you will, my Lord,” the instructor said, shrugging his shoulders in something akin to an artistic dismissal. “I will return next orn at 08:00 joor for His Highness's next lesson. I will require most of his mega-cycles.”

 

“Very well,” the ambassador replied, faceplates drawn tight, and field still brimming with horror. “You may go."

 

“You have my thanks for your instructions, Maestro,” Prowl offered quickly. If the sovereign prince requested Prowl to dance the Golden Cordax in private, the Praxian prince would be highly tempted to refuse, but he knew he would ultimately obey. If he were asked to perform it in court, he would have to make some protest, the Cordax was simply to obscene.

 

“It is, of course, my Honour, Imperial Highness,” the instructor replied, bowing with tremendous grace. “I will show myself out.”

 

“It seemed you may have charmed the maestro,” Grandfall noted, after he dismissed his fellow lords. "You are rather fluid in your movements, if especially methodical. I do not believe you will embarrass yourself at the ball."

 

“I showed him deference he did not expect,” the prince replied, blandly. “Though he was owed it as the Master.”

 

“You studied the Martial Arts then,” the ambassador said. "Good. It will only help with your dancing."

 

“I have found the least difficulty dancing when I imagine it as a Diffusion exercise,” Prowl admitted. “The motions become less mechanical, although never elegant.”

 

“There is elegance in the understated,” Grandfall said.

 

Prowl did not dare voice his gratitude for the Ambassador's assistance. Even if it was being offered, at least in large part, to honour a debt to Smokescreen, the younger Praxian was nearly overwhelmed by it. The Ambassador showed him a kindness that few ever had, and it was impossible not to be moved by it. He was as close to a friend as the prince would find in Polihex's court, and he would be gone within the quartex. It was best, Prowl thought, not to become dependant on the older mech's support. Though Ambassador Grandfall all but through himself into Prowl’s “education”, the Praxian nobles that Emperor Veneer had selected to act as Prowl’s escorts to the court were no different in manners or attitudes than in Polihex than they had in Praxus, and they visibly disappointed when they observed the prince's next dance lesson, when the Maestro focused on the Court dance. There were no steps or movements that were scandalizing to a mech raised in the Praxian culture, there would be no other titillating image captures or stories to share amongt their friends and kin. Prowl took private amusement in the displeasure and boredom of the lords. His amusement was nearly visible when the Maestro insisted that the Praxian lords learn the dance along with their prince. Unlike the Cordax or the Dipat, this was a dance performed alone, choreography personalized to the individual dancer.

“When you find the music within yourself, Your ImperialHighness, I believe you will perform the dance well,” the Maestro proclaimed.

 

“I do not believe there is music within me,” Prowl replied tonelessly to the snickers of the cluster of nobles.

 

“Nonsense,” the Maestro said, ignoring the sycophants. “You simply have not found it yet.”

 

It was by far one of the oddest conversations Prowl had ever had, but at least the Maestro had not pronounced Prowl doomed to humiliate himself. That did not infer that the Praxian prince would not make a fool of himself when he danced before His Serene Highness, but it allowed for a small amount of optimism. With the ball set for the next dark-cycle, Prowl had no further lessons planned, but at almost the last klik, the viceroy called Prowl and the Ambassador for a private meeting. The Praxian pair walked to the Great Library where Tracks would be waiting later that very evening. Grandfall did not appear overly fond of the viceroy, but he said nothing against the Urayan mech. Prowl wondered what it was that the Ambassador found remiss in the viceroy, but did not ask. It was never a wise tactic to allow your own investigations, or opinions to be prejudiced by others before you even had the opportunity to make them.

 

When they arrived at the library, Prowl paused momentarily to take in walls of the vaulting cabinets, filled with datapads. It reminded him, on a smaller scale, Helix Library. His procreator’s personal library was not nearly so vast. As Prowl moved to follow Grandfall deeper into the library, provided access was not restricted, the prince thought he would enjoy spending many joors here. They found the viceroy standing in the far corner of the library, looking out high windows that overlooked the palace gardens. The mech, with his unusual red faceplates, turned to face the Praxians when they approached. Viceroy Tracks bowed low to Prowl and nodded neatly to the Ambassador.

 

“There is no need to sit, I will be brief,” Tracks said. "The Councillors intend to enact an old Polihexian tradition of welcoming a new Amica Endura to court at the celebration. Your Imperial Highness, will be ushered into the ball by the Ambassador to great pomp as a gift from Praxus to Polihex."

 

“Is this something from the mega-cycles of warlords and raiding?” Ambassador Grandfall asked, visibly offended on his prince’s behalf.

 

“Even if it is, it is not so far from the truth, is it not?” Prowl interjected before voices could be raised.

Tracks raised an optic ridge to the Praxian prince before subtly nodding.

 

“It is an old tradition,” the viceroy repeated. He waved a servo and made a sweeping gesture to the stacks of datapads. "You could find the specific origins here, I am sure. In any case, at the height of the festivities, Prince Prowl is to perform for his Serene Highness... You have been instructed in the Court dance?"

 

“Maestro instructed me this mega-cycle,” the prince replied, at least it was not the Golden Cordax.

 

“It will have to be enough,” Tracks said. “If His Serene Highness accepts your performance, and he will because he can't very well not, he will lead you from the ball room and to his the Royal Suite.”

 

“This is mandatory?” Grandfall asked, doorwings flared high and wide, anger radiating out his field.

 

“It is,” the Urayan said. "His Serene Highness must follow tradition. or offend his lords and councillors. His Imperial Highness cannot refuse or he will be ejected from court."

 

“This is unacceptable,” the Praxian Ambassador hissed. “It is barbaric and unseemly, something out of Kaon.”

 

“Better the berthroom then the ballroom,” the viceroy countered. “As it would be in Kaon.”

 

“Enough,” Prowl ordered, voice raised, but still monotone, surprising both mechs enough that they fell silent. “This is what the Polihexian council demands?”

 

“It is,” Tracks confirmed.

 

“I understand,” the Praxian prince said, silencing the ambassador. “I will follow Polihexian traditions.”

 

“Very good,” the viceory replied. Grandfall scowled but said nothing.

 

“Is there anything else I would do well to know?” Prowl asked.

 

“Not that I can think of at this time,” Tracks said. "I am certain the Ambassador is instructing you adequately in Polihexian traditions and culture. If you wish to you may peruse the library to fill any gaps in your knowledge."

 

“Thank you, Viceroy,” the prince said. “I will do just that.”

 

***

 

Tracks walked the winding halls of the palace in search of the sovereign prince. As he walked, his field stirred and the plating along his back flared. He felt as though he was being watched, but refused turned to see who might be there. Polihex was a land of spies who served many masters. If Tracks was not being watched, it would worry him. In this instance, though his plating itched, he heard no peds steps, and in all likelihood it was all in his processor. Jazz had complained when last they had met that he was going stir crazy trapped in the palace. He had said that he saw phantoms and threats in the shadows, heard their steps but saw nothing.

 

It was true that the palace was a far safer place than the gutters of Kaon, Uraya or Kalis but princes, councillors and servants alike had all been murdered with the towering walls at some time or another, and Jazz's reign was quite far from secure. Tracks wondered if the presence of the Praxian prince was more of a threat than a defence, no matter what Greyshield had planned. Trade was not the reason, that was certain. Whatever might actually have motivated the greyed prince to go along with that bizarre contract, the Imperial Prince’s presence in Polihex would likely actually likely serve a different benefit than the dead mech had intended. If any of the ambitious clans thought to assassinate the new Serene Highness, they would have to do so without involving or harming the Praxian Prince. Even with Emperor Veneer's disdain for his second son, Praxus would not tolerate the murder or injury of their prince. The Praxian noble families and the hated heir would never allow it.

 

Prince Prowl's value to Polihex was as a living shield, whether he, or Jazz had yet to recognize this or no. This made it all the more important for the Praxian prince to start fulfilling the “proper” role of Amica Endura to the sovereign prince. Jazz would be most vulnerable in recharge, with Prince Prowl warming his berth, it would be less tempting to would be assassins to target His Serene Highness in the dark-cycle. If the Praxian prince had a strong opinion, one way or another, he had given Tracks no hint of it. Ambassador Grandfall had been insulted and defensive of the “insult” to his Prince but the prince himself had appeared ambivalent.

 

Resignation would have been expected given the situation but Prince Prowl had been as blank as a drone. Save for the instant when he had commanded both the Praxian Ambassador and Tracks to quiet, his field had been silent as a crypt. Even when he had commanded them, there had been no anger or temper, nothing but the demand that the bristling mechs obey. There was no question in Track's processor that his mech had seen Enforcer action and had commanded Enforcers on Actions with some regularity.

 

The prince had weapons systems but had not brought weapons with him, Tracks was certain of that much. If the Praxian had brought weapons to the palace, the Guard would have seized them and Tracks would have heard of it. Enforcer training, in Praxus as it was in Polihex, required training in the martial arts, add the sensory wings, and he had the makings of an excellent bodyguard. This was not the only motivation behind Tracks’ decision not to counteract the machinations of the Council to see Jazz interface his Amica Endura. Tracks had no desire to see Ricochet on the throne of Polihex, no desire to see civil war as the clans fought to put their creations in His Serene Highness’ berth, or actively on the throne.

 

There was no doubt that it was cruel of him to push, and to allow others to push the young mechs together so suddenly but Tracks was all too aware that Jazz had resented the presence of an Amica Endura chosen for him and without a firm nudge, he would never take Prowl to his berth, and that would only make Jazz appear foreign, and odd to his subects, the very mechanisms he needed in his corner. That the Praxian prince had said he would obey Polihexian traditions did not absolve Tracks of his guilt, in fact it worsened it, but the viceroy could live with it. If he wished for his function to remain stable, he needed to keep Jazz on the throne, and Ricochet off of it.

 

Tracks walked the whole of the palace, looking up and down and found no sight, sign or sound of the young sovereign. Resigned to defeat, he let himself out into Jazz's private garden and sat at the nook tucked away in the far corner. It was as he feared, the young idiot had sneaked away from the palace, completely unescorted and unprotected.

 

“Fragging idiot,” Tracks grumbled, crossing his arms to his chassis. “What is Polihex to do with you?”

 

***

 

Prowl was grateful that Grandfall did not linger in the library, and rather left him to his thoughts. Once alone, the prince carefully gathered a selection of datapads both on the history and the etiquette of Polihex, and more specifically its court. As he would have on a major case, he both plugged a thin cable into one datapad, downloading its contents directly to his ATS, while he read another. His helm would be throbbing before he got through the entire stack he had selected but the sensation would be comforting now, it would also be normal.

 

He felt a tickle across his doorwing sensors after a joor had passed, as they picked up what most would have thought were phantom signals, changes in the temperature, or a breeze that tricked the processor into believe a mech was there behind them. Prowl, of course knew there was a mech behind him when he felt the tickle. Mirage's field disruptor did not simply disguise his appearance but his spark beat, his field, even his ped steps, to some degree. Still, Prowl was too preoccupied in his research to acknowledge the other mech immediately. It wasn't until he finished reading the datapad in his servos that he unplugged the other and flicked his doorwing in a silent nod to the Towers mech.

 

-“How was your mega-cycle?” He asked.

-“Frustrating,” Mirage admitted. "I've been ordered to return to the Crystal Empire. Hound is being troublesome, apparently."

-“Hound?” Prowl asked. “I had not known your servus to be capable of any misbehaviour.”

 

-“He has a stubborn bent when he wants to,” the Towers spy said. “He's been promoted to mission lead and is digging in his peds.”

 

-“Perhaps he prefers to be subordinate?” The Praxian prince suggested. “Even with your unique upbringing, Hound was still brought up to be the servus of an heres.”

 

-“That’s at least part of it, but the Spymaster is insistent,” Mirage sighed. “I am to change his processor and then to return to Praxus.”

 

-“Your 'holiday', such as it was has been cancelled then,” Prowl said, a hint of his displeasure event in his mental voice.

 

-“Not completely,” the noblemech replied. "It would be odd for me to appear in Polihex and then disappear after only a matter of ‘cycles. I have to the rest of this orn and the next, and then I must leave."

 

-“Do not worry for me, Mirage,” the prince said. “I will manage here.”

 

-“You are going through those datapads like it is an Enforcer tactical session,” Mirage noted. "And I'm not supposed to worry? Have you learned something?"

 

-“During the Silver Age concubines were often given to Polihexian Warlord and Chieftains as peace offerings and general gifts,” Prowl explained. "They developed a traditional celebration marking the giving of the gift and the... acceptance of it. At the height of the celebration I am to go with His Serene Highness and to interface."

 

-“Next ‘cycle?” The Towers mech asked with a surprised gasp.

 

-“It is to be the climax of the ball,” the prince confirmed. "It is from this tradition of giving and receiving concubines that Polihex developed the position of Official Amica Endura. It was common for the Silver Age lords to keep many concubine who would compete the for the position. Harems have fallen out of fashion in Polihex, but only in recent generations."

 

-“Scrap,” Mirage swore. “I suppose you've agreed?”

 

-“There is precious little else I can do, Mirage,” Prowl said, as he stood and walked to the window, looking over the spiralling gardens in the dimming light. "Grandfall was prepared to refuse for me, but to what end? I cannot return to Praxus. I cannot pretend that I have a choice in my function here."

 

-“You speak like that and you don't want me to worry about you?” The spy asked, increduous.

 

-“I speak the truth,” the prince replied with finality.

 

-“It sounds more like you've given up,” Mirage declared, exasperation, rather than irritation leaked into his mental voice. "You have a strong spark, Prowl. Don't let it fade here."

Mirage slipped away silently, leaving Prowl alone. His glyphs had served the purpose the noblemech intended. Prowl stared out at the garden, lost in his thoughts. He could not deny that he had given up. The only instance in which he had attempted to rebel, to reason with his procreator, had seen him gifted to the sovereign of this strange principality as an expensive whore. How could he be expected to fight Polihex's council, its Prince? What was the point? While his ATS mulled over the question, considering strategies and forecasting success rates varying for dismal to dreadful, Prowl watched the moons Solomous and then Adaptus peeked out from the clouds to cast their light over the garden. Under their the crystals of the garden emitted a mute glow.

 

Prowl watched the garden for joors as he continued to run calculations through his ATS. Though both fuel and energy warns flashed across his HUD, the Praxian remained in place, his mood to contemplative to make either recharge or refuelling tempting. It was not his optics that spotted the movement across the garden but his doorwings. The threat detected, Prowl raised his doorwings' sensitivity and flared them wide as he tried to focus on the intruder. Though there was some danger in remaining exposed in front of a window, Prowl considered it an acceptable risk. He would most likely be able to identify if the intruder was a foe before the mech or femme was in weapons-range. Where optics were hampered by the darkness, the lack of light had no affect on a Praxian's doorwings.

Finally, after a bream or perhaps less, the figure wound his way into view of not just Prowl's doorwings but his optics as well. In the light of the moons, Prince Jazz's visor glinted a rich cerulean, and in that very instant, the Polihexian sovereign glanced up. He stopped, watching Prowl as the Praxian watched him.

 

What had his Serene Highness been doing so deep in the gardens at so late an joor? In a nanoklik, Prowl's ATS had compiled a small list: meeting a lover, avoiding his duties, etc. In truth, it was of little importance to Prowl what the Prince had been doing. He was sovereign of Polihex; he was not answerable to a concubine. Still, Prowl did not avert his optics, or step from the window, and neither did the sovereign look away from him. Prince Jazz was too far away and caste in too much shadow for Prowl to pick up the fine detail of his expression, but the Praxian thought that perhaps the Polihexian royal was frowning at him... even scowling. In the end, it was Prince Jazz who looked away, turning down the path that led to his own walled off garden. Prowl immediately stepped away from the window, lowering the sensitivity of his doorwings as he swept them back into their standard position. He felt as though he had been freed from a trance, but brushed aside the odd thought.

 

There was no need to look at his HUD, Prowl knew he was exhausted and starved, but before he could seek out his berth, the Praxian was compelled to return his borrowed datapads to their proper shelves. Deeply weary, he walked the maze that was the inner palace. He crossed paths with no servants as he found his chambers. For a klik he considered summoning a servant for energon, and just as he was about to, Prowl spotted a goblet sitting on the ornate table he had taken a habit of dining at. A small datapad sat next to it. Prowl reached for and onlined the datapad first.

 

_By now you'll be starving. Drink your energon and get some recharge. You have a long ‘cycle ahead of you._

 

_Your Friend, Mirage._

 

A small smile pulled at Prowl's faceplates, and he drank the pink fuel as instructed. As the cool liquid filled his tank the gnawing ache of hunger receded. Though the small goblet alone brought his energy reserves up, it did not touch his exhaustion. Letting his doorwings slump, Prowl walked to the door of his berthroom, and palmed the door. It opened under his servo and he stepped inside. The rigid berth and it's vibrantly embroidered warming blanket were foreign and Prowl craved his berth, some how delayed in Praxus. His exhaustion was too great for the Praxian to resist and he climbed under the blanket, draping it over his shoulder as he settled into recharge.

 

***

 

Jazz had not expected to find Prowl watching him from the library. He wondered what Prowl had been searching for when he had come to stand there. The Polihexian did not know just what the Praxian's doorwings had been able to see, but Jazz had seen in keen detail the widespread of the mech's polished doorwings, and the hardline of his faceplates. There had been no surprise, no concern, nothing at all to suggest what Prowl might have been thinking.

 

“It is about time you turned up!” Tracks snapped, tearing Jazz from his train of thought.

 

“Tracks?” He said. “Ya been waitin' up for me?”

 

“Yes, Jazz,” the viceroy scowled. "Like a brooding pigeonoid. I should have alerted the guard to your disappearance joors ago but considering the chaos that would have ensued, I thought better of it."

 

“I needed some space, Tracks,” Jazz said. "To think. I wasn't in any danger."

 

“In the future who you simply tell me instead of running off?” Tracks asked. “I recognize that you crave freedom and I know it would be futile to try and stop you.”

 

“Thanks, my mech, I appreciate it,” the sovereign said, relaxing a little.

 

“You're welcome,” the viceroy sighed, releasing a long vent and asked: “just how did you get out unnoticed.”

 

“Servants' entrance along the back wall,” Jazz said. “No one saw me leave 'n no one saw me come back in.”

 

“But someone saw you?” Tracks asked, reading the unspoken glyphs and Jazz's field.

 

“Prince Prowl,” the sovereign explained. “From the library.”

 

“By the Guiding Hand, he's been there for joors,” the viceroy exclaimed. "

 

“Maybe he's having' trouble recharging',” Jazz said. “Pit, maybe he doesn't recharge.”

 

“All mech recharge,” Tracks replied, venting again. “However well he hides it, Prince Prowl of Praxus is a mech.”

 

***

 

While the palace recharged, Lord Grandfall, Praxian Ambassador to Polihex sat awake in his favourite chair, a small goblet of engex in his servo. He dearly wished for Brash’s guidance but the joor was late in Praxus, just as it was in Polihex, and Grandfall knew that his Conjunx Endura would be in their berth recharging. Having lived in the Temple for vorns, Brash was an early riser, and always went to recharge early in the dark-cycle. Carrying hadn't changed this habit.

 

Though he had not made his resignation to Emperor Veneer yet, the Ambassador knew that he would not be returning to Polihex. He would never take another post as Ambassador. When Grandfall returned to Praxus and to his new family, he would not be leaving them again, and he could not take them with him to Polihex. Had he ever voiced this thought, to any lord of Praxus or Polihex, they would have reassured him that Polihex was safe. The Torus States in general were secure. They were not Kaon. His family would be safe at his side while he served as Ambassador...

 

No. Grandfall would never take that risk again. He would serve as head of his family, raise the sparkling that would soon emerge from Brash’s frame, and perhaps carry one in his own. It would not be retirement, simply a change in function. Veneer had mechs he favoured far more than Grandfall, it would be no grave concern to the Emperor to replace him. It could be a grave concern for Prince Prowl, however. Whoever replaced Grandfall would not likely have any great motivation to support the most hated of the three princes. Certainly, Veneer would encourage no such thing. There remained the chance as well that the Emperor would not dispatch a new ambassador. How Polihex would respond to that insult, Grandfall dared not think about it. Veneer would likely be surprised at the backlash from his citizenry should Prowl ever come to harm in Polihex, but fallout for Veneer would hardly repair any damage done to the prince and it would not relight his spark if it extinguished.

 

The Sovereign Prince of Polihex was the creation of Polihex's Chief Spy. Spy, Grandfall knew was a generous title. Punch of Polihex was as much an assassin as he was a spy, and the raising of the current sovereign had largely been left in his servos. Prince Jazz, thus far, seemed to be a charming and jovial young mech but appearance were too easily deceiving, and a sovereign raised as a spy would be a master of deception. There was no doubt in Grandfall's processor that His Serene Highness had seen murder and mayhem. Had it only been his function, or had it been his pleasure too. How easily might Prince Jazz be to turn to murder to rid himself of an unwanted Amica Endura.

 

***

 

“You have not selected a chamber attendant?” Grandfall asked Prowl amidst the hurried preparations for the coming dark-cycle. Prowl tensed minutely at the question before releasing a short vent.

 

“I have never found the need for anther’s assistance in my bathing,” Prowl replied.

 

“Have you never been to a detailer?” The Ambassador asked. “To maintain your Enforcer glyphs if nothing else?”

 

“Fellow Enforcers painted my glyphs freehand,” the prince explained. "It is part of the ceremony when one achieves a rank and a new glyph. “When I stepped down, the same Enforcer's that painted those glyphs removed them in the closing ceremony.”

 

“You’ll find your current level of polish inappropriate for your station in the court,” Grandfall warned. “To achieve a flawless, high finished as expected of a member of sovereign’s household, you will need assistance.”

 

“Do you recommend anymech for this mega-cycle?” Prowl asked, a faint grimace on his faceplates. “I doubt many Polihexian servants have experience with our frame-type.”

 

“My own attendant is skilled,” Grandfall offered. "He’s Praxian like us. And I could monitor the process to ensure that you are comfortable."

 

“That is not necessary,” the prince said before changing his processor. "That is very kind of you. I would appreciate your assistance... And your company."

 

Grandfall had not been exaggerating; his attendant was a skilled professional. Though he treated Prowl not unlike a skittish zap-pony, it was fair enough comparison. Thankfully, the process did not require much of the Praxian prince. All he was made to do was stand exceedingly still. It was, conveniently enough, one of Prowl's strengths. As his finish was completely stripped, his plating buffed, and the colour nanites renewed and wax applied in layers, Prowl never moved, not so much as a vent or the dip of his digit. He let his processor run through the order of the dark-cycle, and when that brought up more anxiety than Prowl chose to deal with, he settled on prayer and meditation. Faith may not have been logical, but it offered the Praxian comfort, and there was a logic to that. Mentally, he recited the Ancient PrimalVernacular prayers to each of the Guiding Hands, and the Avatars of Primus passed. When he was in the midst of reciting the Psalm of Wisdom, Grandfall proclaimed him free to move. He finished the recitation, and stepped down from the platform.

 

“Take a look,” Grandfall suggested. Prowl inclined his helm to see his reflection in the floor length mirror.

 

It was not so much a shock as a pleasant surprise. Grandfall’s attendant had not change so much as a line of his paint, and apart from the almost blindingly high sheen of his wax, Prowl looked much the same as ever. There was a peculiar comfort in that but the Praxian did not resist it, in fact he relished it. This was, he thought, part of what Mirage had been talking about. Prowl could not let himself lose who he was for the sake of the role he was performing. Taking another look, the Praxian felt a pull of pain in his spark at the bare planes of his doorwings. He missed his Enforcer glyphs. They had validated his sense of self as nothing else ever had. But he did not need them. Losing them had not unmade him. Yes, this is what Mirage had been speaking of.

 

“Thank you for your hard work,” Prowl said, speaking to the attendant.

 

“You'll want to strip the finish in an orn or so if you don't wish to maintain it,” the attendant replied, nodding to himself as he circled Prowl, confirming for himself that the prince's finish was perfect. “It'll show imperfections easily.”

 

“I will make note of that,” the prince said.

 

lGrandfall showed his attendant out, and left after him, perhaps sensing that Prowl needed a moment to himself. Prowl's reflection stared back at him. Not for the first time, Prowl wondered what other's saw in his faceplates. A drone? A snob? A failure? Prowl knew he was none of these things, though he was less certain about the latter as the former. What would the Prince see? Perhaps a pretty frame? An Amica Endura he had not chosen and did not desire? A drone? Could Prowl really expect to please Prince Jazz with his frame with his... valve? His mouth? The lines of Prowl's faceplates sharpened as he frowned.

 

They were certainly his to use as he willed. Whether Prince Jazz wished for Prowl to suck his spike or spread his legs, Prowl would do it. He certainly would not relish it, but he would never resist or object. It was the role of Official Amica Endura to please, it was a role that his procreator had made for Prowl certain that he would fail here, as he had at everything else, in Veneer’s optics at least. Perhaps it would be enjoyable, the interface, the Praxian certainly hoped it would be. The destruction of his seal had been painful but less so, in the long run, than the ache in his joints that had come from that damning crash.

 

-“What are you thinking?” Mirage asked, completely out of nowhere. Prowl jerked slightly in surprise. With his doorwings' sensitivity so low, he had not detected the other's presence.

 

-“Primus Mirage, how to you slink around Praxians so casually?” Prowl asked, there was a bite to his voice triggered by his embarrassment at being surprised.

 

-“There isn't a Praxian in this building that isn't three quarters of the way blind,” the Towers mech said. "If they aren't trying to avoid a helm-ache from the relentless music, they are deafened by the music. And to answer your question, I don't slink about, I glide, and I do so less freely in Praxus."

 

-“Grandfall said the low setting still did not allow a Praxian to be surprised,” the prince replied unhappily.

 

-“Grandfall has never encountered a mech with my modification,” Mirage stated. “At least not where he was aware of it.”

 

-“Thanks to your surprise I will have to suffer through constant helm aches,” Prowl sighed as he immediately adjusted his sensor. Through the walls they felt the hum music. His processor was already beginning to ache. “I will never be able to lower my sensors so low again without being paranoid of about cloaked assassins.”

 

-“You're welcome, I suppose,” the noblemech said. “Now, again, what were you thinking about.”

 

-“I am not going to please him,” the prince explained. “If for no other reason that I do not know how.”

 

-“Prowl...” Mirage began.

 

-“No,” Prowl interrupted. "I am not deluded. I will do my best but I can neither disguise my inexperience or free my emotional centre. I tried, but I could not bring myself to read that damnable datapad. Surely he is expected an experienced paramour."

 

-“If he hurts you, I will snuff out his spark,” the spy promised, before Prowl could argue he added: "I don't care what you say about it. If he proves to be like Ricochet, this will be his last ‘cycle."

 

End Chapter 2.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the only chapter, at least so far, that had any significant rewrite. I was never happy with the smut, and though the overall sense of failure that I wanted to leave you with remains, it comes across as better written smut, so far as I am concerned in the least. 
> 
> Thank you all who have left kudos or comments, I want to let you all know how much in means to know that you are reading, trust me it is hugely modivating.
> 
> Miss out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

Prowl was still waiting to be trumpeted in, and already his helm ached. On the other side of the double doors, mechs sang, drums sounded and transverse flutes blew. He knew that somewhere in the ballroom, large crystals, ranging in size were ready to be played. How the Polihexian's achieved this, Prowl could not guess. These crystals were not suspended like those in the Helix gardens. Dubious as he was to leave himself vulnerable, Prowl knew that for this dark-cycle at least, a helm ache would be too much of a hindrance, and he reduced his sensors to their lowest. Even dulled as they were, the Praxian's doorwings could still pick up subtle vibration from the music playing on the other side of the wall. He wondered just how strong the stimulation to his sensors would be once he entered the room.  
  
The doors slid apart in a most dramatic fashion and Prowl almost stepped back at the sudden rush of stimulus to his doorwings. Grandfall was unmoved but the other lords visibly flinched. It was not a painful amount of feedback, not yet, but the suddenness of it caught all the Praxians off guard. There was a moment of silence before the processional began to play and Grandfall led the way into the brilliantly decorate room. Prowl followed the Ambassador, flanked by the minor lords. Dancers from the Maestro's company twirled and bowed as they led the procession to the seated Sovereign Prince. As the flutes and horns rose in volume and the drum beats rang faster and faster, the procession reached it's destination and Prowl dropped to his knees, prostrating himself before the prince. The Praxian lords with him fell to their knees and bowed low as the music quieted. No mechanisms moved or spoke for a klik, until finally, Grandfall rose, and said his piece.  
  
"I am Grandfall, Ambassador to Polihex and Lord of the Sixth House of the Praxian Empire. I come on behalf Emperor Veneer to present His Own Son, Prowl, Prince of the Second Rank as a gift to His Serene Highness, Prince Jazz, Sovereign of Polihex."  
  
"Welcome, Ambassador Grandfall," the Polihexian prince said as he stood from his seat at the centre of a long banquet table. He walked around the table stood in front of the cluster of Praxians. "It is my Honour to received an Imperial Son into my household. Prince Prowl, please stand."  
  
Cheers of exultation rose up from the gathered nobles, dukes, marquises and barons alike. With their cheers rose the beat of the drums and the flutes and horns rang out again. Prowl climbed to his peds. His optics met the visor of the Sovereign. He dipped his helm, and almost belatedly, his doorwings deferentially. Two black digits reached under his chin plate and tilted his face up. Prince Jazz smiled kindly at him,  
  
"I would have you sit at my side for the feast," Prince Jazz said in a voice that seemed more suited to singing than speaking. "If you would please."  
  
"It would be an honour, Your Serene Highness," Prowl replied in his own dull, monotone.  
  
"Thank you," the prince cheered. He raised a servo to the Praxian lords and swept his arm back to the grand table. "All of you, it would be my pleasure to have my Praxian guests seated at my table."  
  
The feast served would have been well received in Praxus. For all the Polihexian Councillors had only had a mere three orn to make the arrangements they had still managed to obtain, lilleth and cryo-condor eggs, dynametal ducks with mercury sauce, even a whole mashadron. Along with the animal based sustenance, crystals of any number of minerals in an array of sauces were available. The presence of flora-based energon, ores, and crystal was something of a relief for the Praxian prince. Polihex was as known for its chaotic and save history. Prowl had feared they might have a fauna based diet, like Vos or Kaon. Conscious that he was being observed at all sides, the Praxian quietly selected an assortment of crystals and energon tarts for his meal. He made no remark about the dynametal duck sitting on the Sovereign’s plate, neither did he sneer. Still, his dietary choice was not unnoticed by his Serene Highness as the mech offered Prowl a dish of iridescent crystals, shaved in thin layers, rolled into cylinders, then filled with congealed energon and dusted with some mineral.  
  
"The crystals are grown in the Palace gardens," he said. "Would you care to try one?"  
  
"Thank you, my Lord," Prowl replied. "I would."  
  
He had been prepared to eat the rolled crystal, where or not it tasted foul, but it was actually delicious. Praxian tradition would dictate Prowl leave a portion of his meal behind. To finish an entire cube of energon or clear your plate suggested that your host had been stingy with the meal and left you hungry. But Grandfall had warned the prince that the opposite was true Polihex. To not finish your meal was to suggest that it was not to your liking, which was obviously offensive to your host. Prowl had been reminding himself to drain his entire cube or goblet when drinking since Grandfall had spoken to him on his arrival in Polihex. The habit, ingrained in him from his sparklinghood, was a difficult one to break. Thankfully, the food was appetizing enough that it was not a struggle to eat every bite, though even the exotic, and delicious flavours could not inspire Prowl to keep his servings anything other than small. The first thing that failed in the prince in times of stress was his appetite.  
  
"Your Serene Highness," the Maestro said after the meal had completed and the entertainment resumed in full force. "To honour this joyous dark-cycle, my company and I would be honoured to perform the Orbis Divinus."  
  
"Thank you, Maestro," Prince Jazz replied. "Prince Prowl, the Orbis Divinus is a dance of thanksgiving to Adaptus and his Avatar, Amalgamous Prime. It's a circle dance, performed within a ring of carved crystals."  
  
"Thank you, Maestro," Prowl said, inclining his helm to the Master. "I am honoured to see you perform."  
  
  
The Maestro bowed with flourish and joined his dancers as crystals, as tall as Prowl's upper chassis, were arranged in a ring. Prince Jazz chuckled and leaned over to Prowl, brushing his shoulder with his own, saying:  
  
"The Maestro is fond of you."  
  
"Is he?" The Praxian asked, blandly. He nearly had to struggle to project his customary neutrality and he did have to struggle to keep his temperature from rising. Such public flirtatiousness was obscene to Prowl's sensibilities but he dared not object. Grandfall had said that Polihex were more tactile than Praxians, less reserved in general. Prowl did not dare look anywhere towards his fellow Praxians. What would they be thinking? Oblivious to the private scandal he had caused, Prince Jazz nodded and sat upright.  
  
"He doesn't suffer fools," he explained. "You must have made a good impression during your lessons."  
  
Thankfully, Prowl did not have to think of an appropriate response. The assembly hushed as the mechs who had positioned the crystals into the rings took their positions next to them. Each now held a mallet, wrapped in fabric. At the Maestro's nod, one of the mech lightly struck the crystal next to him at it's centre and a muted ring rang out. This ring of mechs were musicians, Prowl realized and he watched, fascinated as the twelve musicians struck their individual crystals at varying speeds and strength, creating a beautiful melody.  
  
In the circle, the dancers placed their servos one the shoulders of the mechs next to them and they began to step together. They spun about in a circle, broke the apart and switched places, all the while dancing in a continuous loop. Prowl understood how this was an Ode to the God of Change and the Avatar who had given the Cybertronian people their ability to transform. The circle broke into four smaller circles, merged into two and the back into one. It was a dance unlike any Prowl had witnessed and he marvelled at it.  
  
Too soon, the song and the dance ended. The assembly clapped uproariously to show their appreciation, and even the Praxians joined in. As the joors went one, singer, dancers, musicians, and acrobats all performed for the noble gathering. With each passing performer, Prowl's sense of dread rose. Spectacular as the performances were, they were not enough of a distraction, soon the spectacle would be he. Still he clapped as was appropriate.  
  
It was not as though any mech present would detect a change in him. Prowl's control never wavered, giving him a sense of security even with his building anxiety. The ring of stones returned and Grandfall came to Prowl's side. Briefly his dread soared and the Praxian would have been ecstatic for some escape but he swallowed his nerves and settled his spark. The time had come for his own dance. As he stepped around the table and made his way to the centre of of the ring of crystals, feeling something like a prisoner walking to their execution, the Maestro stopped him.  
  
"You make the music here, Prince Prowl," the Maestro reminded him. "Dance as slow or as fast, as wild or as still as feels right to you. There is no wrong or right in the Court Dance."  
  
"Thank you, Maestro," Prowl said. "I hope I do not embarrass you."  
  
"You're uncertain in your movements but not unsteady," the Maestro replied. "You won't fall on your faceplates and that is enough for me. Even if you did, I don't demand brilliance from novices."  
  
That was, Prowl thought, more than fair, though still not altogether comforting. He could not hope to achieve brilliance, thus there was no logic in striving for it, but failure was something he could not accept. A schematic appeared in his HUD, pulled from his ATS, displaying the choreography he had learned the orn before. Unsatisfied, Prowl drew up both the choreography of the Praxian dances he had learned as a youngling and the Diffusion and Circuit-Su forms he had learned as an Enforcer. Feeding these three sources of information into his ATS, Prowl took his position.  
  
This was as close to improvisation as Prowl was capable and his spark fluttered nervously. Focused on his HUD and the "strategy" prepared by his battle computer, he began to move. He spun in a slow circle, raising and twisting one arm along with the corresponding doorwing and lowering the other set. With each slow and careful step, the crystals began to ring in long, low whole notes. His optics dimmed and went offline as he "listened" to the vibrations that came from his movements. Every careful step, whether his peds barely moved over his legs spread wide and low, drew another ring. They layered over each other as Prowl shifted arms, doorwings and peds before falling silent as he ended his dance in a low crouch, leg stretch out, his doorwing and arm dipped along with it, and his other arm and doorwing raised to the ceiling.  
  
Suddenly aware that his optics were offline, he snapped him online only to find himself staring directly into the Prince's visor. For several nanokliks, Prowl stared, uncertain what called him to do so. His awareness was limited to only the mech he had been contracted to, and his sensory grid reverted to full strength as Prowl's doorwings took measure of the Polihexian. Just suddenly as his awareness had narrowed, it widened again as his ATS took stock of his performance.  
  
No mech spoke or moved and Prowl wondered, grimly if his decision to take the choreography he had learned and translate it into a Diffusion exercise may have been in error. Under the stare of dozens of pairs of optics, and all too many visors, Prowl stood, feeling more grim with each passing nanolik. The Maestro, in what Prowl thought was probably a breech of etiquette, broke the silence, by clapping slowly, a smile on his faceplates. Around him, the gathered nobles began to applause. The Praxian prince stood stiffly under the attention. As he had earlier in the dark-cycle, Prince Jazz stepped from behind the table and approached Prowl. He turned as he rounded the table, nodding to the Maestro, before reaching a servo out to the Praxian. Prowl took it and let himself be drawn in to stand next to the Polihexian, the other mech's arm looped low around his back.  
  
"That was lovely," Prince Jazz spoke in a low voice that reminded Prowl of a purr. A bolt of intimate awareness struck the Praxian at that voice. In a matter of breams, they would interface. He wondered if the tightness in his tank was from anticipation or fear.  
  
Perhaps it was both.  
  
***  
  
Before the empty cold had returned to the Praxian's optics, Jazz had been mesmerized by the intensity of Prowl's pale blue stare. His optics had never shifted from their icy shade but for an instant there had been a heat behind the ice. It was both fascinating and irritating to watch as the heat faded and the cold returned. Jazz wondered if Prowl was even aware that his control had slipped.  
  
The Maestro was certainly not the only mech pleased by the performance. At first Jazz had questioned the slowly, precise movements, passing them off as the result of the mech's inexperience, but the longer Prowl had danced the more Jazz had become enthralled. There had been no questioning that the Praxian was a novice dancer but there was charm in that. Borrowing from the Praxian traditions was a clever step and one that had made the lack of speed appear natural and intentional; it had also made allowance for his doorwings, displaying them quite nicely.  
  
Aware that it was his turn to act, Jazz took Prowl's servo and pulled him in close, wrapping an arm loosely around his back. His plating was cool to the touch and moderately taunt to his protoform. Though he could not be totally certain, Jazz thought he felt the contraction of cables beneath the Praxian's plating, though the armour didn't pull any tighter to Prowl's protoform. Though he teeked no stress or nervousness in the prince's field, that was not to say the Praxian wasn't nervous. So far, Jazz hadn't been able to teek much from Prowl, his field was much like his optics were now, cold.  
  
"Thank you," the Praxian replied in a clear, monotone.  
  
Musicians returned to the floor and trumpeted their exit as Jazz led Prowl from the celebration and through the maze that was his palace to his personal quarters. He knew where Prowl's own were, only a short ways down the hall but Jazz wasn't comfortable invading the Praxian's only personal space.  
  
"You've interfaced?" Jazz asked, once they arrived to the privacy of his chambers. Music by his favourite artist, a crystal dancer, wafted through the room. The cheerful and upbeat melody immediately eased the Polihexian's tension.  
  
"No, My Lord," Prowl replied. "I have not."  
  
"What?" The Sovereign asked, as his upper thought processes screeched to a halt. He snapped his visor on the Praxian. "You aren't supposed to be sealed?"  
  
"My seal was damaged during an Enforcer investigation," the Praxian prince explained. Even as horror filled Jazz's spark and field, he realized that Prowl appeared unaffected by what he was saying. "No interface took place. The damage was purely cosmetic."  
  
"Cosmetic..." Jazz repeated the glyph. It didn't feel right on his glossa. "Some mech tried to...?"  
  
"With the assistance of my partner, I was able to subdue the assailant and to arrest him before he could proceed with any further assault," Prowl said.  
  
"Where was your guard?" The Polihexian asked; he recognized the hypocrisy of his question but, of course, Prowl had no way of knowing that Jazz liked to slip from the palace unguarded and alone so the Sovereign knew he wouldn't be called on it.  
  
"I did not have a guard," the Praxian replied. He cocked his helm slightly as he looked back at Jazz. "Your Enforcers do not walk about with guards. It is no difference in Praxus."  
  
"My Enforcers aren't princes," Jazz countered.  
  
"When I served the Enforcers I was only another Enforcer," Prowl explained. "I received no special treatment for the rank of my emergence."  
  
"No kidding..." The Sovereign said. He had thought that the Praxian looked and carried himself like the classic caricature of an Enforcer. Jazz marvelled at the accuracy of his first impression. "That's something different. So when this slagger attacked you, he was attacking an Enforcer and not a prince?"  
  
"That is correct," the prince said. "He was the suspect in my investigation. It remains unclear why he chose to attack me. Given he had committed numerous assaults over the course of a stellar-cycle with impunity. It is possible he thought himself invulnerable."  
  
"He got spark-imprisonment for it, I hope?" Jazz asked. "For attacking an Enforcer, at least?"  
  
"He was banished and ordered to pay restitution for damaging the future value of his victims," Prowl explained.  
  
"Restitution..." The Polihexian thought aloud. In a nanoklik, he understood. "His victims were young? The restitution was to their creators because an incomplete seal reduces the dowry the creators will receive for their creations."  
  
"Precisely," the Praxian replied.  
  
"That's charming," Jazz grumbled. "Energon credits... Doesn't sound like justice to me."  
  
"I would agree," Prowl replied, in a quiet voice. Jazz perked up, paying that much more attention to Prowl's posture and field. The Praxian avoided optic so Jazz was unable to find a crack there but the cant of Prowl's doorwings was low, lower than the Polihexian had yet seen and for a brief nanoklik there was a spark of something in the other mech's field. Defeat.  
  
"At least you stopped him," he offered.  
  
"I have no doubt that he will resume his criminal behaviour wherever he settles," the Praxian countered, in the same quiet voice. Under Jazz's trained optics, Prowl's control cracked further as guilt oozed into his field. He clenched his jaw and his servos. "He has the funds to build a fine life for himself no matter where he chooses to live. I did not stop him. I only made him relocate."  
  
"I hear you," Jazz crooned. He placed a light kiss on Prowl's chevron as the mech kept his helm bowed and stroked his shoulder guards. "I have no doubt you did everything you could."  
  
"Yes," Prowl said. He only tensed for a nanoklik before letting his plating relax under Jazz servos. "When all official channels failed, I beseeched the Emperor to turn the mech and the case over to the Hall of Justice. I had no fear of doing so; I knew I was to be bonded to the Hereditary Prince of Polihex. I presumed that I could bare my proreator's wrath until I departed Praxus. It did not occur to me that he would change the contract, that he would insult Praxus to shame me like this."  
  
"And that's why you're here as my Amica Endura," the Polihexian said, releasing a long vent. Even as Jazz spoke, Prowl tensed and before the Polihexian could say anything else, the Praxian stepped back, crouched and bowed his helm and dipped his doorwings as low as they could go.  
  
"My apologies, Your Serene Highness," he said. "For insulting you..."  
  
"Hush," Jazz said. "No apologies and no titles. I'm Jazz, and you're Prowl, please. For Pit's sake, I've never been deluded into thinking you wanted to be here."  
  
"I should not have spoken so freely," Prowl argued. "Sir..."  
  
"Hush," the Sovereign said, again. As he did, he stepped forward and knelt in front of Prowl. "Don't prostrate yourself at my peds. Look at me, please."  
  
He teeked the Praxian prince's hesitation. Protocol had been ingrained in Prowl in ways that it had never been in Jazz. His Council would never be able to convince him that strict adherence of protocol was integral to the governing of the principality, and this Praxian prince wouldn't either. Prowl was going to have to adapt, and the Polihexian was sure enough in his convictions to believe that this would be to the betterment of his newly minted Amica Endura. When, after several nanokliks, Prowl lifted his helm, Jazz smiled.  
  
"That's better," he said. "I'm going to do my best to make life here bearable for you to make up for the insult you've been dealt."  
  
"It is not my wish that you be inconvenienced on my behalf," Prowl replied.  
  
"I know," Jazz said. He vented and rubbed the back of his helm. Jazz knew that they needed to get on with the "celebration" but his silver glossa wouldn't work. For a nanoklik is own control falter, allowing Prowl to teek from his field. "It's fine..."  
  
"We are expected to interface this dark cycle," the Praxian said. "You are discomfited asking it of me."  
  
"Uh, yes, well," the Polihexian huffed. "I'd rather we both have the time to get to know each other. I hate to rush..."  
  
"I would have preferred the same," Prowl admitted, before tentatively adding: "We will have time for that in the future."  
  
"That's right," Jazz said. He stood before helping Prowl to his peds. "So, join me in my berthroom?"  
  
Prowl nodded his acceptance and followed Jazz to the room. It did not exactly thrill the young soveriegn to bring a mech who was basically a stranger into his private sanctum and it thrilled him less to take this mech into his berth. He could not, would not, take his displeasure out on the Praxian, who had even greater reasons than Jazz to be unhappy with the situation. Unlike Prowl, the Polihexian had interfaced, fairly regularly up until returning to Polihex, and each interface had been a choice fuelled by lust and affection.  
  
If the Praxian had spoken the truth, and Jazz's instincts told him he had, Prowl was an innocent in every way that matter. That society would call him sullied goods was a crime. Had his seal not been damaged by some brute, Jazz suspected Prowl's procreator, Emperor or not, would not have been able to convinced his lords to allow that hideous contract to be ratified. Given what had happened to him, Prowl deserved to have his first interface that a mech he trusted, and desired. Instead, he was stuck with Jazz.  
  
At least, from the Polihexian's perspective, Prowl was a pretty mech. The strong and silent were rarely Jazz’s type, and prince was too cool and remote to play that role. Jazz was a passionate mech and he liked his partners to be the same and Jazz it was impossible not be frustrated that Prowl could not even pretend to be that sort of mech. There was nothing for it but to would make do, of course. For Prowl's sake, as much as his own, Jazz would try and it good for the Praxian. Surely it would not be too difficult.  
  
"Have you ever been kissed?" Jazz asked when the door shut behind them.  
  
"No... Jazz," Prowl replied, pausing briefly before omitting titles and using the Polihexian's personal name. "I have not."  
  
"Would you like to be?" The Sovereign asked.  
  
"If it would please you to," the prince replied. Jazz chuckled.  
  
"I'd like for us both to be pleased," he countered. Prowl flicked a single doorwing and looked at Jazz helm on.  
  
"As I have never kissed, I do not know if it would please me or not," he said. "I am amenable to making an attempt."  
  
"Beautiful," the Polihexian purred. Swallowing his own fears, he pressed the back of his servo beneath Prowl's chin, holding the Praxian's chinplate. The Praxian's lipplates parted just slightly. Whether it was out of reflex or anticipation, Jazz didn't especially care.  
  
Jazz softly pressed his lipplates against Prowl's and waited a few nanokliks to see how the Praxian would respond. He didn't have to wait long; Prowl kissed him back, tentatively but it was enough for the Polihexian. Emboldened by the prince's reaction, Jazz kissed Prowl more firmly, testing his limits by nibbling the Praxian's lower lipplate.  
  
Prowl opened his lipplates, taking a long intake as he did. Smiling, not yet venting hard yet but getting close, Jazz pulled back to look at the Praxian. Finally, Prowl did not look so unaffected. His widened optics were glowing bright, and his thin lipplates shone with oral lubricants. He looked, Jazz thought, like an innocent ready to be ravished. Innocence was not a turn on for the Polihexian but he could not deny that the brightness Prowl’s optics, and the slackness of his mouth were not inexplicably attractive.  
  
"How was that?" Jazz asked, a tease in his voice. It may have been a tame kiss as far as Jazz went but if Prowl was amenable, the next would not be.  
  
"Pleasant," Prowl replied. From any other mech that would have been a set down extraordinaire. However, Jazz got the impression that the mech was sincere. A small tingle of fond amusement lit in Jazz's spark.  
  
"Good," he said, and he pulled Prowl up against his frame and set about kissing him senseless. Jazz licked his glossa along the Praxian's lipplates and before long, Prowl opened his mouth to him.  
  
As before, the prince hesitated a few nanokliks before opening his mouth wider and giving Jazz better access. A servo behind Prowl's and the other low on his lover's back, Jazz ran his glossa over Prowl's denta and tangled it with the Praxian's glossa. He swallowed the soft vent from Prowl's primary vents, cheered on as the inexperienced mech reached to hold his shoulders. The plating under Jazz's servos was heating up as Prowl's internal temperature rose; Jazz knew it mirrored his own frame-response. He sat on his wide berth, the warming blanket he often kicked off in recharge, was folded at the ped of it. As he sat, Jazz guided Prowl down with him so the Praxian came to straddle his lap. Now he let his servos wander. He kept his touch light and slow, always ready to stop if Prowl tensed in anyway.  
  
Instead of tensing under Jazz's touch, Prowl's plating relaxed, opening seams wide enough that the Polihexian could dip his digits inside. The protective plating that shielded Prowl' doorwing joints relaxed enough that Jazz was able to slide his servos beneath it and stroke the apterium it concealed. Prowl took a sharp, startled gasp into his intakes as the Polihexian found his doorwing joints. Jazz paused, unsure if the gasp signalled pain. Several nanokliks later, pleasure bloomed in the Praxian's normally quiet field and he pressed his back into Jazz's servos.  
  
"I'd heard these are sensitive," Jazz murmured, moving to kiss Prowl's neck cables, wanting to listen to the mute sounds of pleasure.  
  
"They are," Prowl replied, voice shaky and laced with static. The ventilations he made were reminiscent of cut off moans.

 

“Would you lay back?” Jazz asked, as he abandoned the Praxian’s doorwings. He reminded himself over and over to ask, not to tell, not that Prowl was likely to refuse anything of him. Pillows were a popular item of comfort in Uraya, and the Polihexian’s younglinghood largely spent in that principality had given Jazz a taste for the soft foam squares. “If it won’t hurt you.”

 

“I will not be harmed,” Prowl replied, carefully sliding up to the head of the berth, and laying back to rest against the pillows. So far as the sovereign could tell, his soon to be lover looked comfortable, but the prince’s mask had already returned, and Jazz was not sure the mech would even let him know if he was in pain.

 

“Let me know if you don’t like anything,” the Polihexian ordered as he crawled across the berth to lounge at Prowl’s side. “I’d like us both to enjoy it.”

 

Prowl gravely inclined his helm to show his agreement, and Jazz swallowed his nerves. Faced with the prince’s cool exterior, the sovereign had to suppress his growing desire just to call the dark-cycle a bust. His council would know, however and whether they threw the blame at Prowl’s peds or Jazz’s, the inevitable fallout was too much to risk. Remembering the warmth of Prowl’s ventilations, the condensation that had dotted the mech’s frame, Jazz leaned over the Praxian, and covered his mouth with another kiss. As before, Prowl parted his lips the sovereign, while not with the most skill or confidence, the prince kissed Jazz without hesitation or timidness.

 

Encouraged by the other mech’s receptiveness, the Polihexian glided a servo down Prowl’s smooth chassis, lightly scrapping sharp digit tips over the prince’s headlights. He tasted the heat coming off Prowl’s frame as the other mech’s ventilations increased. The Praxian curled his blunt digits around Jazz’s shoulders as an involuntary shiver went through the supine mech’s frame. It could not be described as passionate, but it sent a rush of arousal through the sovereign, and he pulled back to take a look at his new lover. Prowl’s optics were bright, condensation was beaded over his faceplates, and he was venting heavily from barely parted lipplates. Stunned, was how Jazz thought would be best to describe the mech’s expression, stunned and stunning.

 

He had not expected to be properly aroused just by the sight of Prowl, pretty mech or no, but Jazz could not deny the desire that had flooded his circuits, and he though just maybe the Praxian might have been feeling something similar. Jazz pressed his lips against Prowl’s neck, tasting the condensation that had collected on the broad support cable there. A soft vent broke from the prince, and he shivered again as his digits reflexively curled into the plating of Jazz’s back. It was not a moan per say but the Polihexian interpreted it as a sound of pleasure.

 

Taking exquisite care, Jazz stroked his servo across one broad doorwing as he tasted the other. Prowl's frame radiated heat, his secondary vents were open wide and his fans hummed loudly as he squirmed haltingly under Jazz’s minstrations. The little squirms drew the Polihexian's processor to his own equipment, and the unnecessary messages in his HUD letting him know that his interface protocols were online and that his spike was ready to pressurize. Raising himself up on his side, the sovereign smoothed his servo back across Prowl’s doorwing, back over his chassis, and down to the black plating of his pelvic girdle.  
  
"Will you open for me?" He asked, ghosting his digits over the hot panel. There was no doubt that Prowl was experiencing arousal, something that relieved Jazz greatly.  
  
Glyphlessly, Prowl slid his modesty panel away, allowing the Polihexian unfettered access to his array. Jazz watched Prowl’s faceplates as the he brushed his digits along the smooth metal. As he brushed his digit tips over the Praxian’s interface equipment, the expression on Prowl’s faceplates, bright optics and slackened mandible, changed minutely. His optics dimmed slightly and his mouth closed. It was enough to concern Jazz, and he kept his visor locked on the Praxian's faceplates.  
  
To his slight surprise and considerable duress, Jazz found Prowl's spike sealed. It only took a nanoklik's consideration to decide that he would leave the seal be. If and when Prowl wished to give it to him, he would be happy to take it but Jazz needed it to be something the prince wanted and not something he would agree to only to please him. Further down, Jazz found Prowl's valve, primed and leaking a fine trail of lubricant. Prowl's ventilations stalled and Jazz froze.

 

"Are you alright?" He asked, concern dampened his own arousal and he search the Praxian's ever quiet field, and still faceplates for some sign of fear.  
  
"I am," Prowl replied after a half klik. His optics, having dimmed again, brightened as his ventilations picked up again, along with his fans.  
  
"Tell me to stop if you're uncomfortable," Jazz asked, almost pleaded. His moral coding wanted to stop right now. He didn't entirely trust that the Praxian would not simply go along with whatever he did out of a sense of necessity.  
  
"Noted," the Praxian said. "I would prefer that you continue. Unless there is something I can do to please you?"

 

It took all of Jazz’s self-control not to recoil at the last statement. The glyphs made him think of a prostibot asking for direction from a client. He had never purchased pleasure, had never needed to, and had never wanted to, and now he was in the position where he rank had more or less done just that. There was no way Jazz would ask Prowl to do anything, anything beyond the interface they had agreed to. Once again he questioned the wisdom of continuing, and once again he feared the fallout from his Council. The situation was spiralling into a less than pleasant disaster. When he looked back to Prowl’s faceplates, not having realized that he had looked away, Jazz saw a question in the ever alert optics. They had to continue, and again Jazz swallowed his nerves.  
  
More or less untouched as it was, Prowl's valve case was drawn tight, the soft, pliable metal polymer hybrid mesh lining filled the small component. Jazz stroked a single digit along the sensitive rim of the outter casing before circling the very edge of the lining. Lubricant gathered on his digit and the tight valve quivered. Every shift of Prowl's expression drew another tendril of dread into Jazz's spark and the soft sounds the prince made no longer seemed as pleasing to his audials. Hoping to recover the situation, and hoping to distract himself, the Polihexian kissed his Praxian lover again. It was a relief when Prowl kissed him back, with just a little more confidence and enthusiasm than their previous kisses. The warmth and willingness of the kiss was a comfort and Jazz reigned in his uncertainty enough to gather more lubricants on his digit before slowly easing it into Prowl.  
  
The conductive lining, slick with lubricants, spread easily for Jazz, even as it hugged his digit. Whatever his moral qualms, Jazz's spike ached behind his panel, primed and ready be buried in Prowl's heat. Stroking, and spreading the walls gently, the Polihexian withdrew the one digit before re-penetrating Prowl's valve with two. Very, very slowly, Prowl rocked into Jazz's digits, movement uncoordinated, frame shivering and vents working hard as he did. His own blunt digits scraped down the sovereign’s back, and up again as he seemed to try and hold on. Almost in time with his digits, Prowl’s valve clung tightly to the Polihexian’s questing digits. With each careful twist of his digits, Jazz felt his lover’s valve relaxing. Lubricants gushed over the sovereign’s servo as he carefully withdrew his digits. A ragged vent from the Praxian’s intakes followed.

 

Feeling suddenly uncertain of the prince’s doorwings, Jazz drew Prowl up before rolling onto his own back, with Prowl laying over him. Slowly, plating flared, and ventilations unsteady, the Praxian sat up with his exposed valve sitting over Jazz’s closed panel. Prowl shuddered and shifted his hips, smearing his lubricants on the Polihexian’s plating. It would have been hot as slag if it had been intentional. Prowl watched him now, doorwings spread wide, optics entirely focused on Jazz’s visor. The sovereign guided him to his knees, relieving the pressure on his panel. Jazz shuddered with barely restrained want.

 

"Ready?" He asked, his own voice now hoarse with static. Prowl nodded, with a little shiver and he braced himself, servos pressed into the Polihexian’s abdomen. Jazz kept his optics on the prince as he held the mech’s hips. His panel slid away, and his spike pressurized instantly. Beads of transfluids glistened at its head, the long biolight ridges along the sides glowed bright blue. Never breaking optic contact, Jazz released one servo from the Praxian’s hips to stroked Prowl’s valve rim, collecting the sticky lubricants, and coating his hard spike with them. With that same servo he guided his spike to his inexperienced lover’s valve.  
  
Agonizing pleasure scorched Jazz's sensor net as his primed spike met that heat of Prowl's intimate circuitry and breached Prowl’s core. Moving his servos to Prowl's hips now, Jazz guided the novice mech down on his spike, letting him control the speed of his penetration. Next to his own legs, Jazz felt Prowl's shake as he took more of Jazz's spike inside. Prowl's doorwings shifted high on his back before slowly lowering again. The movement repeated again and again as the Praxian's array came flush to Jazz's. He stayed there, valve casing cycling down and clenching around Jazz's length without a rhythm. Unprepared to move without Prowl's clear consent, Jazz stroked his servos along the Praxian's back, gently massaging the armour plating.  
  
Finally, Prowl slowly rolled his hips and Jazz bit back a curse. It felt too slagging good and he wanted nothing more to rock up into Prowl, but instead he remained perfectly still. Haltingly, the prince raised himself slightly before lowering himself back down, rising halfway off Jazz's spike before taking it all in again. After a few kliks of halting, awkward movements, the Sovereign took hold of Prowl's hips again to help guide him into smoother motion. Once they created a comfortable rhythm, Jazz twisted his hips to meet Prowl's downward motion.  
  
A sharp groan broke over Jazz's vocalizer. It had been quite a while since he'd interfaced and Prowl was hot and tight. The only thing that perturbed him was the quiet. Prowl's ventilations were fast and his engine revved hard along with his fans but he barely made a moan or a gasp. His faceplates were slack and his optics glazed and distant, only to light up from klik to klik as his ventilations skipped. It felt to Jazz like Prowl's processor was somewhere else. He thought of the prostibots in the dark alleys of Kaon, mechs and femmes who shut down internally even as they serviced clients, away to spare themselves the spark-crushing horror of their functions. Jazz's spark lurched at the thought. Was Prowl doing just that? His spike started to depressurize only to be hugged tightly by the Praxian’s hot, wet valve. It was fully pressurized again instantly.  
  
"You're alright?" Jazz both asked and assured. He wanted to comfort Prowl of any internal turmoil but felt wholly uncertain as to how.  
  
"Hmm," Prowl made a soft sound, optics brightening for a moment as the head Jazz's brushed the top of his valve. His digits dug into the Polihexian’s plating, as he moaned breathlessly: "Jazz."  
  
Was he reassuring himself that it was the Polihexian and not his attacker her was interfacing or was he enjoying the 'face? Prowl’s optics dimmed completely as his valve drew taunt around Jazz's spike, and he rocked himself up and down, slowing fragging himself on the sovereign’s spike. It felt too fragging good, even with Jazz's increasing emotional discomfort. He needed to find his release but he needed to give Prowl his first. Jazz released Prowl's hips and returned to the Praxian's doorwings, palming them firmly but gently. Prowl’s valve cycled down hard as his helm fell back with a soft moan. Encouraged by this, Jazz slid his digits under the flat armour panel that shielded the prince’sapterium, and thumbed the strong structures. A startled gasp announced Prowl's overload as charged lubricants swept through his valve, copious amounts leaking out around Jazz's spike, the prince’s whole frame shook as charge rushed over his arched frame. Jazz rocked up into Prowl's spasming valve, prolonging the Praxian's overload as he achieved his own. Holding Prowl's pelvic array against his own, Jazz overloaded, bursts of thick transfluids shooting deep inside the Praxian.  
  
Without pleasure there was nothing to hold back Jazz's horror at what he had done, what he had been a made to do. Prowl was still above him and Jazz eased himself out of the Praxian, his depressurized spike pulling back into it's housing and his plating close. Effortlessly, the Polihexian sat up, his spark clenched violently as he sat chassis to chassis with the prince. The mech seemed vaguely addled. No doubt it had been his first overload. As Prowl recovered, the emotional storm within Jazz wound the Polihexian tighter. Still, he gently cleaned the Praxian's plating, and then his own. Apart from the paint transfers and the scuffed finish, he looked intact. On shaky legs, Prowl climbed from the sovereign’s lap, and spoke.  
  
"That was enjoyable," he said, there was still a hint of static in his voice but his monotone had largely returned.  
  
"Good," Jazz replied, keeping his doubts, and his growing horror to himself. Although he wanted desperately to be alone, Jazz asked: "Did you want to rest here?"  
  
Prowl looked at him, helm slightly tilted to one side, sharp optics focused on Jazz faceplates. Jazz was certain his friendly mask was firmly in place. The prince did not know what he was think, could not know. Else he would think it was necessary to placate Jazz and to reassure him that he had enjoyed himself. Jazz did not want to hear any well intentioned lies.  
  
"I would like to bathe," Prowl said after moment. "I will return to my own chambers."  
  
"Good, good," the Sovereign replied, smiling maybe a little to wide. He kissed Prowl quickly, at the side of his faceplates. "Have a good recharge."  
  
The moment Jazz was alone, he ran for his washracks and purged. His frame shook with the force of his retching and the horror that overwhelmed him. By passive aggressively punishing his Council and making them plan that party, Jazz had left himself open for a counterattack. Because of his petty revenge, he had been trapped into interfacing Prowl. Prowl, who was already a victim of interfacial assault. The Praxian may have consented to the interface but he had not really had a choice. Jazz purged again. Exhausted, disgusted, and defeated, he crawled to the corner of the shower, and pressed his helm against the wall.  
  
  
***  
  
The hot spray of solvent rained down on Prowl's doorwings as he sat hunched over on the washracks floor. As the hot liquid seeped into the seams of his armour, the Praxian's doorwings slowly drooped until they rested in their lowest slope. He barely felt the ache of his doorwings or the odd tenderness of his valve. His processor was swimming in statistics and probabilities, potent emotion and cold facts. It was reasonably rare for his ATS and his emotional centre to work alongside each other; they were more often at war within his processor, with facts usually winning out over spark. In this instant the sorrow and dread in his spark, as his emotional centre read it, flowed smoothly with the reality seen by his ATS.  
  
-"Prowl?" Mirage voice spoke through the comm. Prowl knew the spy was not in the washracks. He was likely on the other side of the door. "Are you alright?"  
  
-"Leave me be, Mirage," the Praxian hissed. He buried his faceplates in his servo. If only the floor beneath him would crack open and swallow him whole. Jazz had clearly not intended broadcast his emotions as he had. His field had been almost fracture as Prowl had teeked terrible emotions within it.  
  
-"Not a chance," the Towers mech countered sharply. The door to the washracks slid open soundlessly a nanoklik later. When the door closed Mirage came into view with a shimmer of light. Distantly, Prowl thought he had probably not even bothered to lock it. In four steps, Mirage was standing over him, field filled with murderous intent. "Do I need to kill him?"  
  
-"I did not please him," Prowl replied, his helm snapping up. His optics were wide and bright with regret and despair. "I disgusted him."  
  
-"Prowl..." Mirage crooned.  
  
-"He could not get away from me fast enough," the Praxian lamented, he buried his faceplates in his servo again. "He pitied me!"  
  
-"Is pity that terrible?" The noblemech asked gently as he knelt in front of him.  
  
-"It is if it's if it is because I am flawed," Prowl sneered. "It is my own fault! I was not good enough. He must have thought he was interfacing a drone!"  
  
-"Prowl stop!" Mirage ordered. "You'll work yourself into a crash. Just ventilate for a klik... Now tell me what you are talking about."  
  
-"I could not express myself, not well at least," the prince explained as he sank back into emotional control, although the control was tenuous. "My focus kept drawing inward. I kept listening to my ATS. I did not focus on him, I did not please him. He was... unhappy, worried. I could not even slagging moan for him correctly."  
  
-"What did he say about your seal," the spy asked. "He noticed, did he not?"  
  
-"He was alarmed," Prowl said. "I explained that I was attacked, and that he attack did not result in an interface, merely cosmetic damage."  
  
-"I don't think he saw it as cosmetic damage," Mirage said, gently. "To his optics, Prowl, you retreated inward. Mech do this after trauma, during trauma, to escape it. Perhaps he thought you were doing that."  
  
-"Do you think so?" The Praxian asked. The self-hatred in his processor and his spark eased. As he ran the suggestion over in his processor. It was, he noted with confirmation from his ATS, a reasonable possibility. Though certainly not the only one.  
  
-"Primus Prowl, I don't see it as cosmetic damage," the Towers mech said. When he saw Prowl's hooded optics and the question in them, Mirage expanded on his statement. "You bled, Prowl. He cut you inside with his claws. I wish I had killed him. The instant you put stasis cuffs on him, I regretted not killing him."  
  
-"I did not realize you felt so strongly," Prowl murmured.  
  
-"It wasn't my place," Mirage shrugged and sighed. "Isn't my place. It's your frame. How you feel about it, how it affects you, I can't project my feelings about it on you."  
  
-"He did far worse to those young mechs," the prince said after a long time. "Though he made me bleed, once I put stasis cuffs on him, once my helm cleared and I had him restrained, I had control and authority. He never had the chance to make me feel powerless. My procreator did that when he made the case about my glitch. When he agreed to banish Ricochet instead of trying him to avoid my glitch being revealed, he made me powerless. He denied those innocent mechlings justice. They could have been Bluestreak... They could so easily have been my brother and somewhere on Cybertron, he has some young mech in the same spot."  
  
-"It hurts you more that Ricochet is free," the noblemech stated. "That his victims didn't get justice.”  
  
-"My glitch, my deformity, saw Ricochet walk free," Prowl said. "Because hiding my shame is more valuable to the Emperor than seeing a rapist face Trial."  
  
-"That, none of that is your fault, Prowl," Mirage insisted. "You know that."  
  
-"Rationally, I know this," the prince confirmed. "I have spoken to Smokescreen a great deal. I will not deny being... perturbed by the assault. It was not an attack I ever expected to face in my Enforcer colours, and as it happened I was struck dumb and glitched with the sheer audacity of it... and it would have been worse if you had not taken that statuette and bashed his helm in."  
  
-"I could have done more," Mirage said. "And I didn't... Because I knew you would prefer to see him before the circle of Justices."  
  
-"And I thank you for that," the Praxian said, reaching to clasp Mirage's shoulder guard. "For trying to believe in the Justice I served even if you don't wholly believe in it."  
  
-"Soft spark," the spy teased lightly before turning serious. "So His Serene Highness didn't hurt you?"  
  
-"No," Prowl said. "Though on a whole the experience was humiliating, Prince Jazz was considerate to me."  
  
-"I guess he lives another mega-cycle then," Mirage proclaimed without any real conviction. "You'll be staying in here for a while yet?"  
  
-"Yes," the prince confirmed. "Return safe to your hotel, Mirage. I am well enough now. Thank you, for being a friend."  
  
-"Always." the spy promised. "Recharge, Prowl."  
  
With his internal crisis passed and his processor calmed, Prowl relaxed under the spray. His spark was contemplative now, instead of all out panicked. Perhaps Mirage's interpretation of Prince Jazz's reaction to him was not so far off. Where Prowl had assumed that the Polihexian sovereign was put off by him because he saw Prowl as drone-like, perhaps instead Prince Jazz had seen his withdrawal and lack of reaction as the defence mechanism of a victim. Prowl knew he was not undamaged by what Ricochet had done and by being forced to keep it largely a secret. He was simply more adept at suppressing his emotional reaction than most mechs. There were times when the complications from his ATS were a strength. If he could only tell the sovereign, perhaps the disowned prince would see justice in Polihex. But that was impossible. The Dowager Consort's clan would lay bare Prowl's own secret. Whether he hated it or not, Prowl knew silence in this matter was his only real option.  
  
If he could speak to Prince Jazz, explain the deficiencies of his emotional programming, perhaps the Prince would be less disturbed? Or perhaps he would be more disgusted? Prowl would not be able to promise him that his responsiveness would improve. Though it was actually likely enough. Having analyzed the sensations once, it was reasonable to think that he might be willing to enter standby mode when faced with more of the same, at least part of the time. At least if he would make Jazz understand that he did enjoy interfacing, the Polihexian would learn to look past his countenance.  
  
A probability of 76.23% was not especially high but it was a thread of hope that Prowl had not had only breams ago. There would be no way to know for sure without attempting another interface and the Praxian was not confident that Prince Jazz would want to go to berth with Prowl again. Either Prowl was unappealing because he acted like a drone or he was unappealing because he had been violated. Prowl release a long vent and stretch is doorwings. The ache in their joints may have faded slightly but it still remained. A soak in an oil bath would likely help further; the thought made Prowl grimace. He did not think he was so desperate yet to seek out a public bath.  
  
Finding his peds, Prowl turned offer the shower and dried his frame. As the groom had warned, his high finish did indeed show imperfections now. His pelvic array and thigh plating was scuffed and marred with paint transfers. Seeing the scuffs drew Prowl's focus to to his interface array. Heat rushed to his plating as Prowl remember the sensations, and the sounds of the interface. The transfluids of Prince Jazz's release were still inside of him. Prowl offlined his optics and cleared the thought string from his processor. It really had felt good.  
  
***  
  
Prowl rose from recharge at the start of the light-cycle. Even for a mech who was accustomed to shortened recharge cycles, the joor was still too early. Unfortunately the ache of his doorwings would not allow Prowl to initiate recharge protocols now. He took stock of his frame. There remained a very slight tenderness of sorts in his valve as components that had never before been stretch returned to their normal dimensions. It was nothing that would hinder Prowl through the coming mega-cycle. His doorwings on the other, were going to be a trial.  
  
It had been awkward at first, for Prowl, to be on top of Jazz, controlling the interface, He had certainly not been terribly successful at it. But it had been considerate of the Prince to spare Prowl's doorwings, though the Praxian was fairly confident that the sovereign’s obscene, and really rather wonderful, pile of pillows would have protected them well enough. Jazz’s berth had been the only comfortable furniture Prowl had encountered in the Polihexian Palace. Their chairs, and lounges and not padding or support for doorwings, and Prowl’s berth at least was firm and unforgiving. Weary both from a troubled recharge, and the frustration from the delay in the arrival of his possessions, Prowl settled on the wide lounge at the centre of his central living space. It was softer than his berth, too soft to support his doorwings and ease the strain on his joints to any serious degree but it was somewhat more comfortable.  
  
Though his fuel levels were not optimal, they would hold for joors yet and Prowl was not comfortable with the notion of summoning a servant when his finish was marred as it was. He knew that any servant who witnessed his dishevelled state who quickly spread his/her tale throughout the palace. They would know soon, based on the evidence on the sovereign’s berth, but they did not need to see the marks on Prowl. While he would have to accept that his life from this mega-cycle forward would be lived on display, he was not prepared to give up his sense of privacy must yet. As the prince waited for the joor to pass, and for Ambassador Grandfall's inevitable visit, he removed a blank datapad from his subspace and began to compose a letter to Bluestreak.  
  
It was still early when Grandfall commed Prowl, asking if the Praxian prince was free. The timing was optimal, as Prowl had only just completed his letter to Smokescreen. He subspaced the datapad, along with that of his letter to Bluestreak and waited for the Ambassador to arrive. Seven breams passed before Prowl heard a ping at his door. Wordlessly, he acknowledge the request. There was no way to prevent Grandfall from seeing his scuffed frame in the near future, but before the door opened, he moved to stand behind the lounge, using it as a shield to guard his frame from any curious optics that might linger in the hall.  
  
Prowl rotated his doorwings in a wide arc, futilely hoping to relieve some of the discomfort. Grandfall stood in the doorway, turning before entering and taking a tray from some servant beyond the entry way, and the prince was grateful for his forethought to hide beind the lounge. If the servant was disappointed not to have some fresh gossip to share, he did not express it, not even in his faceplates. The older Praxian greeted Prowl with a dip from his doorwing, but said nothing, at first. Setting the tray down on the table, he stood and examined Prowl with critical optics.  
  
"I did not please him," the prince said, anticipating Grandfall's question.  
  
"You interfaced," the ambassador observed, with a frown. He narrowed his optics as he watched Prowl's faceplates. "He did not harm you, I hope?"  
  
"I am well," Prowl replied. "My manner displeased him. Whether he found my countenance dispassionate because he saw me as drone-like or because he saw it as a defence mechanism from passed abuse, I cannot say."  
  
"While it is unfortunate that the dark-cycle did not run smoothly, I am relieved that you are unharmed," Grandfall said.  
  
"Thank you," the younger Praxian replied. "I am concerned that His Serene Highness will not seek me out again. He may wish to break the contract."  
  
"Sit with me, Your Imperial Highness," the elder Praxian asked. He took a serving of grated metal and crystal shavings and offered it to Prowl and poured the prince a cup of oil. "I must remember only to call you Highness in public moments. It is not agreeable to the Polihexian court to have an Amica Endura referred to with a higher tightly than their sovereign... I do not believe the Council will allow the Prince to break the contract, and in truth I believe he is too considerate to insult you in such a way.You are right enough to worry that he may avoid your company for a time, perhaps for a considerable time."  
  
"I do not know what to do, Ambassador," Prowl said. "I cannot entice him with my frame or my manners. I am not appealing."  
  
"You cannot think of yourself as a common concubine," Grandfall said, surprisingly sternly. "Leave the seduction to those that know no other way. You have a processor that marvels mech in all circles. Entice the Prince with your intelligence, it is by far your strongest asset."  
  
"I cannot see how he will notice or care," the prince replied, a small frown as he look at his meal.  
  
"If he does not notice, the viceroy will," the ambassador said. "And the Urayan will not ignore such a strength if he thinks it can be used for Polihex."  
  
***  
  
For the first time since he ascended the throne, Jazz cancelled all the cycle's meetings. He did not bend to his Councillors objections; his response to their pings was only to repeat that the meetings were cancelled, and that they were not to disturb him. The Lords would honour his demand, mostly because they had no actual choice. Tracks, the Prince knew, would seek him out at some joor and the sovereign would speak with him, but only him. Jazz had no other allies here. Still, he was in no mood for company just yet. The palace had no shortage of hiding places for Jazz's use and he collected energon, rust sticks and some goodies from the kitchen before slinking off to lick his metaphorical wounds.  
  
The roof was his chosen spot for this cycle, as it often was. Jazz had always had a fondness for heights, and he had often questioned if he had emerged in the wrong frame. From the top of the towering spire that made up the palace's centre, Jazz could see for kilometres in all directions. The capital glittered under the bright early light of Alpha Centauri. Beyond his view, Jazz knew, lay the slums of his city but from up here, Polihex looked clean and beautiful. Music reached his audials, even high up as he was and Jazz took comfort in it.  
  
Punch would have cautioned him not to trust Prowl's glyph so easilym but Jazz did. He believed in both processor and spark that the prince had been assaulted, possibly even raped. Though the Praxian had down played it as "cosmetic" damage, Jazz found that difficult to believe. Prowl had been quietly obedient to him, sitting over him, open and unresisting. For nearly the entire interface, his optics had had a glazed, distant look to them, and he had made only the slightest muffled noises. The passion that had been present in his kisses had disappeared once the interfacing had begun.  
  
Jazz should have stopped then and there, regardless of the fact that Prowl had voiced his willingness. They should not have continued to penetrative interface. The Polihexian took no comfort in knowing he had given the Praxian an overload. What arousal Prowl had experienced had only been an automatic frame response. The innocent, involuntary contractions of the prince's valve, the whispered, breathy ventilations... Jazz could not deny enjoying both, and a part of him regretted that it would be a cold cycle in the smelter before he brought Prowl back to his berth.  
  
There was a dark place in the Pit waiting for him, Jazz was sure it. He needed to hear from Tracks that the viceroy had not known of what had happened to Prowl. If he had, Jazz was done with the older mech. Better no ally than one who would set him up like that. His spark was heavy and cold. He wanted to believe that his ‘genitor had not known, but realistically, Jazz knew better. Greyshield had certainly known, and he had said nothing to avoid an argument with his new heir. Emperor Veneer had known, had blamed his own creation for being violated, and had treated him like sullied goods, practically giving him to Jazz on a crystal platter. What sort of an originator did that to their creation? What sort of originator blamed their creation for being violated?  
  
-"Jazz?" Tracks asked. "I have no idea where you are and I am not sure I want to know.  
  
-"'M on the spire," Jazz replied. "It's pretty this time of cycle,"  
  
-"Promise me you will not fall to you death," the viceroy ordered with more than just a hint of exasperation.  
  
-"I got magnets in my servos, Tracks," the Prince said, fatigue and frustration leaking into his comm voice. "I can climb the outside 'o any metal building."  
  
-"Something happened over the dark-cycle to put you in this bleak a mood," Tracks observed. "Would you care to tell me?"  
  
-"Did ya know Prince Prowl was assaulted?" Jazz asked. "His seal was damaged when some slagger he was investigating got the jump on him."  
  
-"By the Guiding Hand, I had no idea," the Urayan swore. "That is not something I would hide from you."  
  
-"But it's somethin' my ‘genitor would've," the Polihexian said, grief in his voice. "He wasn't really surprised back then when the contract had been edited. He knew and he didn't care."  
  
-"I won't defend his choice," Tracks replied. "I do not know if he was aware but it seems unlikely that he would not have been. I cannot defend that decision..."  
  
-"I may as well've raped Prowl last dark-cycle," Jazz lamented. "He was an innocent and I took 'm 'cause some old tradition my Council dug up, 'cause I slagged them off, said that I should. And he never refused me 'cause he didn't think that 'e could."  
  
-"Have you spoken with the prince?" The Urayan asked. His own voice belayed a sense of his own guilt.  
  
-"He assured me that he enjoyed the 'face," the Polihexian replied. "It was... Primus. He let me do what I wanted. He didn't say anythin', didn't ask for anythin'... I won't, I can't... Never again."  
  
-"Take care before you reject him, Jazz," Track warned. "Or he will think that you are doing so because you think he is unclean."  
  
-"How can I ever ask for interface again?" Jazz asked. "He’s gonna think he has to say yes. Even if I tell'm he has a choice."  
  
-"A mech who has been violated does not suddenly become incapable of giving consent," the viceroy said without leaving room for argument. "Do not fool yourself into thinking that he cannot give his because of your own sense of guilt."  
  
End Chapter 3  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

As Prowl had feared and expected, it proved not only difficult but impossible to find the Prince after their disastrous dark-cycle. Jazz avoided him spectacularly. How precisely was Prowl to explain himself if the Prince would not even deign to speak with him? If he insisted on avoiding Prowl for too much longer, the Praxian would have to schedule an appointment because corning the mech was proving to be impossible. There was no pattern to His Serene Highness' movements, apart from regular meetings with his council, and Prowl was not so bold as to ambush the Prince in front of his lords. He had made the mistake of doing that with his own procreator and Prowl never made the same mistake twice. It was wearying to exist in limbo like this. He served no function, had no duties at all. Lord Grandfall could not be in his company at all times; the Ambassador had duties to complete before he returned to PraxusMirage, well the noblemech came and went without warning as he served his function to the Crystal Empire. As of this very mega-cycle Mirage was to make his return to his Empire. When and if his friend could arrange to return to Polihex, Prowl could not hope to predict.  
  
When unoccupied with a specific purpose, his ATS turned its attentions to Prowl's own life and future and while some of the potential outcomes were positive, even pleasant, many more were wholly negative. It was not that Prowl was an entirely negative thinker on his own, it was simply that logic, reason and likelihood did not often promise or predict the kindest outcomes. He did admittedly, focus on the most dire predictions, working them through his ATS over and over, attempting to find some potential way to turn them around should the theories meet with reality. But all too often the projectiosn only became more dire and that only fuelled Prowl to focus on them more. This was not a healthy habit, at least not according to Smokescreen.  
  
This was one of the primary reasons Prowl had enjoyed his function as a tactician to the Enforcers. His ATS had been occupied and his service had been fulfilling. Without that function, he was only treading mercury. Lord Grandfall's advice that he seduce Jazz with his intelligent had seemed promising at first glance but Prowl was not all together certain as to how he was to showcase his processor to the Sovereign, and if not him, the viceroy. He was not at all enamoured with the idea of approaching Tracks. The mech was in service to Jazz, not to Prowl, and he was under no illusion as to whom the Urayan would give his loyalties, certainly not to Prowl. To keep himself sane, outside of his time with Grandfall and Mirage, Prowl spent nearly every waking orn in the library. There was data to compile and analyze and even more valuable, a simulator for which he could act out his theories. There was the added chance that the Prince or the viceroy might stumble upon his simulations. It might not even be that slim a hope, and it was this hope that convinced that tactician to leave the saved sims unencryped.  
  
Since the dissolution of the Torus Kingdom, Kalis, Uraya and Polihex had often gone to war with each other, each attempting to conquer the others in order to reform the kingdom with their Prince as King. In the last war against Kalis and Uraya, Polihex had come agonizingly close to fulfilling the aspirations of Prince and citizenry. Polihex had thoroughly thrashed Uraya only to have Kalis beat them off spectacularly. With its forces shatter, Polihex had then nearly fallen to a vengeful Uraya. In the end, none of the three principalities had made any gains and each had suffered terrible losses. It was Prowl's project to see if his own strategies, millenia later, could change the outcome of those battles. Because hindsight was all knowing, he limited his data to what the Polihex Prince and his generals could have and should have known. His processor buzzed with images, graphs and maps as his ATS digested the data, compiled it and theorized. While it was not a real scenario, Prowl treated it as it were and devoted as much attention and processor power to it as he would have any Enforcer exercise.  
  
The Polihexians had had greater numbers but the Kalisites had known the terrain. The war had taken place in the wet seasons and acid storms had been and were still common in the region. Reinforced tents and structures had been heavy to transport, and shield generators too costly to defend more than the most senior warriors and generals. The corrosion of the terrain from the pooled acid had made the journey to the edge of the Kalisite capital all the more difficult. Without reinforced ped armour or chassises in in their alt-modes, many soldiers had been made lame by the acid they had marched or driven through. Polihex had always had its share of seasonsal acid storms, referred to as the Rains, but not so terrible as those in Kalis. It had been known to all that this was so, but the Polihexian Prince and his generals had under estimated just how problematic the weather could be.  
  
Prowl focused on the weather and the Kalisites. During the wet seasons, the custom had been to wear additional armour to protect them from the acid rain. This addition armour had also provided protection against plasma and laser fire. The Praxian's own preferred ammunition, acid pellets, would have done little damage outside of close range. Spies within Kalis had warned the Polihexians of this additional armour. The response had been to bring additional heavy artillery and the most powerful war-builds in the Polihexian army.

  
Heavy artillery and war builds were certainly vital to victory, even within Prowl's scenario, but you could not rely on brute force alone. All around the capital, acid rain had eroded terrain, exposing the inner structures of the planet. While not immediately visible, with some effort, underground energon and fuel lines that fed the city could be exposed, and destroyed. It would not starve the citizens or army immediately. Stores of energon crystals, fuel and minerals would hold them for a time but the power to their defences would be severely compromised.  
  
The energy shield normally erected during in storms would not be able to generate. If the Polihexians waited, a storm would come in time and weaken the erode the metal from which the city was built. Depending on the make up for the rain, if it contained ascetic acid, it could even ignite the pooled energon and fuel, even the damaged lines, causing hideous destruction. In all likelihood, such an explosion would damage, if not destroy, the city defences. Weakened by both starvation and acid, the Kalisite would not be able to put up an adequate defence. Well placed hits from heavy artillery would bring down the remaining walls and the city would be overrun. It was a brutal strategy, one that Prowl would not have liked to suggest but according to his ATS the likelihood of success upon implementation of the plan would be 91.54%. The loss of life to the Polihexians would be minimal, to the Kalisites, extreme and the Urayans would lay down all arms to avoid the same fate. Had this strategy been available to the Polihexian Prince millenia passed, Prowl suspected the chance of an easy, if bloody, victory would have been all too tempting to ignore.  
  
To Prowl himself, it was a hideous strategy. It was episodes like this that had made him elect to join the Enforcers and not the Army as his procreator had wished. Through Prowl's tactics, mechs had died, some at his servos, but nothing like the scale of battle. In his function as an Enforcer he had been focused on preserving life and justice, not victory or defeat. He it had suited his spark better. Prowl made a note on the scenario that success was undesirable at the cost of mass casualties and closed the simulator. His previous tactics had been less destructive on a whole, and while Polihexians had died in greater numbers, the other victory and the one defeat he had achieved had overall cost fewer lives. As far as Prowl was concerned, this made them both more favourable strategies.  
  
:“Prowl?” Mirage asked through Prowl's private channel. "I'm in your quarters. I'd like to say good-bye."  
  
:“I am on my way,” Prowl replied. He abandoned the simulator and made his way through the now familiar maze of halls to his quarters. The Praxian suspected that the layout of the palace, halls that wound and ended with no purpose, corners and backtracking were actually security features designed by a long greyed prince/duke/king. It was easy to get lost in this place, and Prowl was not yet comfortable walking anywhere but from his quarters to the library. In only three decaorn, Grandfall too would be gone and Prowl would be totally alone. If he could not convince the Prince to just speak with him, Prowl was uncertain as to what he would do. Though he was not the most sociable of mechs, total isolation was not at all appealing, and unfortunately, he did not make friends easily. In fact, Mirage was his only friend.  
  
“Mirage?” Prowl asked, after the door to his quarters latched. The noblemech stepped from his washracks, a sad smile on his lipplates.  
  
“I really hate to leave so soon,” the spy said, frowning. “I'd like to be sure that you're safe.”  
  
"I will miss you," the prince replied. "I am safe enough. I will be posting my letters to Smokescreen. He will deliver yours to you and any you might write to me."  
  
“Of course I'll slagging write,” Mirage exclaimed, he raised his chin, looking both stubborn and self-assured. “And I will visit as soon as I can.”  
  
“Thank you,” Prowl said, he offered his friend a small smile. “Your support has been invaluable.”  
  
"Just as yours has been to me," the noblemech replied. “I would have done something very stupid without you to talk me down.”  
  
“I am aware,” the Praxian agreed. “However you resent it, enjoy your time at home.”  
  
“I'll try,” Mirage promised. He gave Prowl a quick hug, a gesture the Praxian was only just becoming used to from a mech other than either of his brothers. "Whatever conclusions I've come to for myself, I hope you find companionship, if not love in this Prince."  
  
“Thank you,” Prowl replied in a whisper. He was both saddened and embarrassed by the statement. "Be safe, Mirage. As safe as you can."  
  
“I will,” the spy said. "I always am."  
  
The noble spy shimmered out of sight and in a few nanokliks the doors slid open and then shut. Prowl was alone. His spark felt heavier than he had expected and not entirely for himself. It grieved him that one mech could have made Mirage think himself unlovable. If given enough time, and given the noblemech gave himself the chance, Prowl thought Mirage would find a partner who appreciated him, flaws, shadows and all. He was in no mood to ponder on this, or on the grief he knew still made his friend's ped steps leaden. The library was his sanctuary, in a way his chambers could not be with their uncomfortable furniture and tacky opulence. Really, the only flaw that the library had was that even there, music played, though the volume was usually lower. If it weren't for the constant battering of his sensor-net from all corners of the palace, Prowl might have enjoyed the music here. If the Praxian wanted quiet, he had to suffer the discomfort of his lounge. He only hoped that he would acclimatize. Arriving at his destination, Prowl palmed the panel next to the library doors and they slid apart. He took a single step into the doorway and froze.  
  
“It is not an acceptable use of the palace coffers,” a voice argued from across the library.  
  
“They are my coffers to use,” the voice of the Prince replied, angrily. “And just how is funding the Arts a poor use of Royal credits?”  
  
“Entertainers earn their credits performing, that's their lot,” another voice said. “Indulging a personal hobby like this...”  
  
“The Maestro's company aren't just novice street performers,” the Prince hissed. “They serve in ceremonies and worships, and even if they were, that hardly discredits them!”  
  
“Those credits are better spent growing the army,” the first voice, a councillor, not doubt, said.  
  
“I am not making war with anyone,” the Prince replied. “That ain't happening...”

  
"Again, your accent!" A voice sneered.  
  
“Shut it,” the Prince snapped. “I ain't makin' war.”  
  
“We cannot have a civilized conversation when you speak like a guttersnipe,” the second voice scolded. “You can hardly call yourself a Serene Highness when you...”  
  
“I do not believe this conversation was civilized at it's start,” the viceroy spoke up. It was his speaking, not the Prince's that brought the councillors into line. “As to His Serene Highness's project...”  
  
Prowl could listen no more. He fled the library, walking quickly, nearly running, to his chambers. The prince threw himself into his private space and tumbled to his knees. His helm throbbed as his processor laid the implications bare in his HUD. The need to flee from this revelation drove him to his peds only for him to stumble after only a few steps. The Praxian prince crawled to the far wall of his great room and curled into himself. His emotion centre worked in time with his ATS, feeding the tactical systems with his spark deep horror. Tears erupted from his optics and Prowl buried his helm in his knees.  
  
***  
  
“Greyshield would have thrown you into a pit for speaking to him like that,” Tracks scolded the offending noble. "What makes you think that you can speak to His Serene Highness in this manner? Because he is young? Because he was raised out of Polihex. I do believe you, Sureshot, were amongst those who encouraged the posthumous Prince to arrange just that."  
  
The councillor in question shrank back, as did his colleagues. It gave Jazz only a little pleasure when they did this, because they were cowing to Tracks, not to him. They held no respect and certainly no fear of their Prince. It was not that Jazz wanted fear but he needed respect. Only one mech could rule Polihex and it would have to be him if he wished to survive, and so far he had failed in this miserably. He had let them badger, cajole, and harangue him in every direction, and he had obey, Jazz thought every time. He felt defeated, and exhausted.  
  
“My Sire had a fondness for music,” Jazz said, modulating his accent. He wondered for a brief nanoklik how he was going to do this for the rest of his function or if this fake voice would become his own. "He funded the first Music Halls. If any of you mechs argued against it, he didn't listen. I am not going to listen. I am honouring the Maestro's company with my crest and I _will_ be his Patron."  
  
Tracks nodded his helm in approval and remained silent. As Jazz stared down his councillors, one by one, they cowed to his stare. They would grumble and sneer at this for decaorns but Jazz didn't care. This was his first victory over the, however small. When he built an Academy to Arts, they would really gripe but the Prince knew better than to spring that on them just yet. Polihex was not just a land of spies but artists, artisans, musicians and dancers and it was that reputation Jazz wanted to build on. He would make Polihex a centre of culture, colour and art; he had had enough of shadows.  
  
“I will not make war,” he repeated. "If Uraya or Kalis attack us, then we will defend ourselves. That's it. Polihex's army is well trained and well run. If my ‘genitor didn't see a need to expand it in his last vorns, I don't see a need to do it in my first. That's it, we're done for this ‘cycle."  
  
The councillors were cowed enough that they made to argument against impromptu meeting adjourning on that note. They were nicely cowed, for once, though Jazz wasn't optimistic that it was going to last. He would have to make it last. Since he could not live with them as his conscience, he needed to live by his own. Jazz wondered if he would every see them as his councillors, rather than his ‘genitor’s, and if his councillors would ever see him as their sovereign and not a young imposter. When only he and Tracks remained, Jazz turned to the viceroy.  
  
"Well?" He asked.  
  
“I am suitably impressed,” Tracks replied. “You put them nicely in their places.”  
  
“Thanks,” Jazz said, slipping happily back into his natural accent. "Maybe it'll last a ‘cycle... Forget 'em for now, at least. Tell me, what ya wanted to show me."  
  
“It's on the simulator,” the viceroy explained, leading the Prince to the wide table with a 3D holographic display. Tracks tapped away at the keyboard for a klik and paused. “It seems he's been working on another one.”  
  
“Who?” The Prince asked.  
  
“Watch the display,” Tracks said as he activated the saved simulation. Both mechs watched, riveted and horrified by the total destruction of Kalis that played out in three dimensions. Both winced as the pooled energon detonated and the city wall and half the city itself exploded with only burning rumble remaining.  
  
“The Pit was that?” Jazz asked, gobsmacked. He leaned forward and read the notation.  
_  
The cost of victory is not always worth the price._  
  
“That would be your Amica Endura's work,” the Urayan explained. "Watch another simulation. That one was the most... ruthless he's produced."  
  
Jazz watched as Kalis fell or withstood against two further strategies. He watched the Polihexian army hold back the Urayans instead of falling to the slaughter as they retreated after defeat in Kalis. These simulations were not a modern patch on the fatal mistakes of Jazz's ancestor, they were totally new, works by one mech with each only taking a few ‘cycles at most to develop. They weren by no means perfect but for rough works, they were amazing.  
  
“Prowl wrote these?” Jazz asked, mouth gaping.  
  
“This is were he spends his mega-cycles since you have done a fine job ignoring his existence,” Tracks explained. “There is no question, he is a brilliant tactician.”  
  
“He needs a function,” the Prince said. “If he's gonna be happy he can't just sit in the palace 'n watch the stellar-cycles go by.”  
  
“I would agree that the Imperial Prince is not likely find his current position entirely fulfilling,” the viceroy said. "Given his past experience, I would humbly suggestion that you appoint him as an observer to your Enforcers. Once they are comfortable with his presence, assign him to an advisory role."  
  
“My lords'll laugh themselves into spark failure but I think y're right,” Jazz replied. “He'd be happy, I think, to have a real function.”  
  
“You'll still keep him as your Amica Endura?” Tracks asked.  
  
“I don't have a choice,” the Polihexian replied. "I can't cast him aside, even for a function he wants, not without humiliatin' him and I won't do that. If he wants to be, Prowl can be Amica Endura and Enforcer. They aren't conflictin' roles."  
  
“You'll talk to him then?” The Urayan asked.  
  
“Yeah yeah,” Jazz grumbled. "Ya can stop harassin' me. So, if Prowl isn't here, where else is he?"  
  
“His chambers,” Tracks replied. “He doesn't wander much.”  
  
“Alright,” the Prince said. “It ain't too late; I'll pay’m a visit.”  
  
***  


The Prince had the accent of the lower caste. If Prowl's experiences were anything to go by, the accent was specific to the slums of Uraya. This made absolutely no sense. How would he have had the opportunity to develop such an accent? While Prowl was aware that Jazz was the son of a concubine and the deceased king, that should not have limited him from the education owed to a prince of the realm. Within Polihex, the offspring of concubines to kings or nobles were legitimate. The position Prowl was in fact appointed to, Official Amica Endura, translated best as official sweetheart or lover.  
  
Veneer would be thrilled to learn that Prince Jazz had the speech of a guttersnipe. It would please the Emperor to no end that his hated son had been lowered to begging for and receiving attention from a low class mech. Primus, Prowl's first interface had been with this mech! All his future ones would be his... That the mech was the Sovereign of Polihex, was of little comfort As it was, Polihex was no better than a feral backwater when compared to regal Praxus. That was, of course, Veneer's basis for promising Prowl to Polihex in the first place. Whatever lies he might have told the posthumous Prince, Veneer saw no value in aligning Praxus to Polihex. This whole contract was nothing but a means to both discard and humiliate his second son. Prowl was well and truly humiliated.  
  
Coolant tears began to stream from his optics. Slowly, he curled his arms around his legs and buried his faceplates in his knees. The force of emotion flooding his processor made Prowl's processor ache and overheat. He teetered on the edge of a crash as he mourned the fulfilling function he had found in the Enforcers only to have it wrenched away so that he could play berthwarmer to a foul mouthed Prince.  
Lost as Prowl was in his hopeless grief, he neither heard no sensed the door to his chambers sliding open and the form of the Prince filling the doorway  
  
***  
  
A frown twisted Jazz's faceplates. Just what was he seeing here? Nothing he, or anyone in the court had said or done had so much as earned a smile or a frown from the Praxian Prince and yet here he was curled in on himself, bawling his spark out. Coerced interface and overload had barely garnered a moan from the mech, had not garnered a cry or complaint. Indecision kept Jazz frozen in place. He didnot really know Prowl, and what he did know of the mech, Jazz did not particularly like. Guilt flooded Jazz's processor. The Praxian had done nothing to earn his displeasure. Their disastrous interface, however remained on the Prince's processor. Amistake, Jazz’s mistake.  
  
Jazz stepped back from the door and let it slide shut before beginning to walk back down the hall. The Praxian would probably be horrified to have a witness to his breakdown. Maybe he wouldn't care. No, he would probably care and he would probably claim to prefer to be left alone but that did not mean it was best for him. With an irritated rumble from his engine and a gust of air from his vents, Jazz turned around and returned to Prowl's door. Should he really force his presence on the Praxian? Should he really pretend that he had not seen him curled up and sobbing? Jazz was no coward. Again, he opened the door without requesting permission. He stepped in, paused for a klik, before he walked deeper into the room.  
  
One doorwing gave the barest twitch, and Jazz knew Prowl was aware of his presence. All sounds of grief stopped, and Jazz thought he might have made the wrong move, again. Prowl was absolutely still, and Jazz was close enough to teek embarrassment, and to a milder extent, irritation from the other mech's field. Resolute, and maybe just a little stubborn, the young ruler finished crossing the room. He stood, looking down at the Praxian for a klik, waiting.  
  
“Is there something you require, Majesty?” The Praxian's voice was a tight, static laced whisper, he glyphs were clipped as he spoke. Still, he kept his faceplates against his legs, hiding them from the Prince. There was no mistaking the displeasure in his field, no mistaking the lack of control he had over it. For now, Jazz would ignore the use of his title.  
  
“Are you okay?” Jazz asked. He cursed his glyphs. Okay was not a dignified glyph. Prowl did not give him long to berate himself for the slip in his vocabulary.  
  
“You spoke to your advisers in a distinctly foreign accent,” Prowl said slowly. His voice remained tinged his static but was now without inflection. Control, it would seem, had been restored. “You allowed them to berate you for the slip.”  
  
"Ya... You heard that..." Jazz muttered. His engine sputtered and he cursed his Council for ganging up on him in the library, cursed himself or having so little self control that he had slipped up in front of them.  
  
“If you do not wish to be overheard, it is best not to argue in a public space,” Prowl stated. The careful set down was delivered in a voice now nearly free of static. Jazz teeked irritation overcoming embarrassment in the Praxian's field and he curled his digits against Prowl's back, forming a loose fist and he fought to keep his anger in out of his field. Was Prowl angry at him? Yes, Jazz expected he was, and though he deserved it, the Polihexian found it impossible not be annoyed at that.  
  
“Can I speak freely?” Jazz asked, only partially restraining a hiss from his voice.  
  
“You may do as you wish,” Prowl replied. Jazz was pretty sure that was a jab at his language. He narrowed is optics.  
  
“My origin is a spy,” Jazz explained. Carefully choosing his glypjs and modulating his accent. He consider, for a nanosecond, moving away from Prowl, and he thought that the Praxian Prince would prefer it, but Jazz needed the anchor, and he was selfish enough to reach for it. "For a period he was Chief spy. At some point my ‘genitor took a liking to him and ended up spark... kindling with him. Before I emerged, he named my carrier Official Amica Endura to make me legitimate. Under Polihexian law, he had the right to as many concubines as he wanted, but it still offended his Consort and the consort’s clan. We were sent away. We could have lived better but my origin preferred to live where he worked and that was the slums... Not that we were bad off or anything but our neighbours were... rough. When I was first recalled to Polihex my ‘genitor was horrified with how I talked and how I acted. My origin told him a noble accent would get me killed or kidnapped were he worked.... I was given intensive lessons when I came back... home the last time. I learned how to talk and how to behave."  
  
“I see,” Prowl said and went silent. His field was brittle and Jazz wondered if he was about to fall apart again.  
  
““What do you want me to say, Prowl?” Jazz asked.  
  
“Speak to me as your authentic self,” Prowl said. Jazz teeked a brief flash of bitterness and something he could not define, in came and went so fast, from the Praxian's field. “I dislike deception.”  
  
“And that's what you think I'm doing when I use a different accent?” Jazz asked.  
  
"Is it not? Is it not just an act?" Prowl retorted, finally turning his helm to look at Jazz. “Have you not been playing a part since from the instant I arrived, since you arrived?”  
  
His faceplates were schooled but marred with drying tears and his mouth was set in a hard line Something about the expression made Jazz's spark soften and he reach to wipe a tear away. Prowl stared at him, lips slightly parted and his optics widened with a look of surprise. Jazz offered the mech a small, crooked smile.  
  
"'M doin' my best to perform a function I wasn't trained for," he said, setting his shoulders as he reverted to his native accent, and vernacular. Prowl was going to regret his request; Jazz was sure the informality was going to burn the proper Praxian's audials. "I've been as genuine as I thought I could be with ya..."  
  
Prowl was silent, his optics seeming to search Jazz's face and the former spy was once grateful for his visor. As Prowl searched his counterpart's expression, he opened himself up to Jazz's scrutiny and Jazz could see strain still present at the corners of his optics and lipplates.  
  
“I am sorry” Jazz said, as he considered the mech hunched over next to him. "I didn't intend to deceive ya.  
  
"You are forgiven," Prowl replied, though Jazz wasn't certain that the mech really meant it.  
  
"Thank ya," he said, before asking: "will ya tell me why ya were cryin'."  
  
“You will be displeased,” Prowl replied carefully, optics still trained on Jazz's faceplates.  
  
“It's all good,” Jazz said, rubbing the plating under his servo in a weak attempt at offering comfort or reassurance. "Quid pro quot, right? I'd rather ya were honest with me."  
  
“I am lamenting my circumstances,” Prowl replied. Jazz had to fight the urge to chuckle. The words were so deadpan but the choice of words were so emotive.  
  
“Okay,” Jazz said. It was a miracle that he was able to speak without bursting into hysterics. “A few more details?”  
  
“I did not please you,” he said, alluding to their interface. "I am not all together certain I will ever be capable of pleasing you. How long can a concubine expect to remain if he cannot fulfill his purpose adequately?"  
  
“Prowl,” the Prince exclaimed.  
  
“There would be no penalties from Praxus if you broke the contract,” the Praxian prince went on to say. "My procreator would be all the more pleased if you did. Especially in light of your... upbringing. He would be titillated at the thought I had “lowered” myself to be in your berth and still proven to be unworthy."  
  
Jazz froze and his engine revved in a show of temper and he felt Prowl's frame tense minutely under his servo. The Praxian was right, Jazz was displeased, very displeased. Did Prowl think he had debased himself in being with him? He had been of course, and with his past, he must have felt that much worse for it. True, it was easy to discard a concubine, even the Official Amica Endura in Polihex. Greyshield had taken and discarded at least one other Official Amica Endura, when Jazz had been a youngling, some time after Punch himself had been discarded. Even with Raisonne's temper, the mech had enjoyed the opulent trappings of a royal concubine for a few vorns. He had never sparked, for better or worse. In time, Greyshield had grown tired of him and without the Prince's active protections, Raisonne had achieved his vengeance. While the discarded Amica Endura had not been banished from court, the other nobles had shunned the mech and he had disappeared in obscurity.  
  
“Did ya lower yourself to be with me?” Jazz asked softly.  
  
Prowl averted his optics. That was answer enough but Jazz wanted more. He wanted the Praxian to admit what he felt, to trust him enough to do so. It was expecting far too much of a mech he barely knew and who had even less reason to trust Jazz now that he had just joors ago.  
  
“No more than I have since the contract was signed,” he admitted, keeping his optics focused on his knees, subtly braced for a dressing-down.  
  
"Can't really blame ya," the Polihexian said. ‘M sorry...”  
  
Now the Praxian had his optics on Jazz. The Polihexian let out a brittle laugh and padded Prowl's back as he did. He shook his helm and vented.  
  
"'M not happy that ya feel degraded," Jazz said, explaining himself. "But 'm not deluded enough to think ya would feel any different. I shouldn’t of let myself be convinced that we had to follow that tradition... We... I should have waited."

 

Waited ‘til never would have been preferable.  
  
"It is not my wish that you would feel guilty," Prowl replied. "However it is clear that you do."  
  
“Not you're fault,” the Polihexian replied.  
  
"It was, in fact," the Praxian countered, earning him a frown. “You feel guilt in regards to our interface.”  
  
“Well, ya,” Jazz admitted.  
  
"That would then be my fault," Prowl said. Before Jazz could cut him off and argue otherwise, Prowl raised his servo. "You thought me traumatized by the act."  
  
"Ya kinda faded out, Prowl," the Prince countered. "How can ya say ya weren't distressed?"  
  
“That would be my tactical systems,” the Praxian prince explained. "I have a deficient emotional centre and a dominant logic processor and battle computer. As we interfaced, my ATS continued to demand more of my focus than I should have allowed. It is often difficult for me to resist."  
  
"I don't understand," Jazz said.  
  
"My tactical systems are the priority system in my frame," Prowl explained. "Where most mechs interface protocols and emotional coding would take priority during interface, my ATS continued to demand the bulk of my processor usage. I was not distressed, Jazz. I was distracted by my tactical systems."  
  
“Is that why ya aren't usually emotional?” The Sovereign asked. “Because of your systems?”  
  
“In a sense,” the prince confirmed. “I feel as any mech does. However it takes far more stimuli before a physical reaction will occur and I control those, even then, whenever possible."  
  
“So no one knows what y're thinkin' or feelin'?” Jazz asked.  
  
“Yes,” Prowl said, and after a pause, added: "I hope that clarifies my conduct. As you see, there is no cause for you to feel guilty. I apologize for the confusion."  
  
"Thank ya for explainin' it to me," the Polihexian replied and vented. "It doesn’t really change that we shoulda waited, ‘n that’s my fault. But ‘m glad ya weren’t sufferin’ too badly for my sake."  
  
"I did enjoy the interface, Jazz," the Praxian insisted. "You ensured I did... I thought you were kind. I am sorry I did not please you better."  
  
"Don't worry ‘bout that," Jazz said. "Ya weren't displeasing... Really, ya weren't. I've been givin' ya the run around for the orn, will ya forgive me?"  
  
"Yes, I see no cause not to," Prowl replied. Fatigue was etched in the slow of his doorwings as the dullness of his optics but Prowl remained alert. "You sought me out this dark-cycle, why?"  
  
"I wanted to ask you something," the Sovereign Prince explained. Prowl inclined his helm and flicked his doorwings back, granting Jazz permission, at least he thought so. "Somethin's been botherin' me... Don't jump to any conclusions... I just wanna know... What'll yer procreator do if y're dismissed from Polihex?"  
  
“I would not be welcome in Praxus,” the Imperial prince replied, his plating clicked as he drew it tight to his frame, and his tired doorwings swept up. Even still, his voice remained calm and even. “The moment I stepped on that transport, Praxus was closed to me.”  
  
“That's what I thought,” the Prince Jazz.  
  
“Decavorns from now, when my elder brother ascends to the throne of Praxus, that will change,” Prowl added. It made Jazz wonder who he was trying to reassure, Jazz or himself? The sympathy Prowl must have teeked in Jazz's field had a transformative affect on Prowl and the mech pulled, almost violently, free of the embrace, sitting straight and staring resolute into Jazz's optics. "I am a trained Enforcer. I am not incapable of earning my energon. You do not need to feel obligated to house me..."  
  
“Stop!” Jazz snapped. He winced at the force of his own voice. He cleared his vents and ran his servo down his faceplates. "Prowl, I ain't about to toss ya out, got it? Maybe I'm not thrilled with how things are workin' out but I ain't that kind of a cog-sucker."  
  
And he was not the type of cog-sucker that spread another mech's legs and spiked him just for the sake of it. Of course he had already done just that because he had been devoted to playing his “role”. Frustration and disgusted filled his spark and leaked into his field.  


“It was not my intent to offend,” Prowl said, softly as he seemed to deflate from his perfect posture, back into a slight hunch. His doorwings fell low on his back.

  
“No, no apologies,” Jazz said and he wave one servo in a dismissive gesture while he ran the other over his mandible. “I'm not happy with any ‘o this but none 'o that’s y're fault ‘n I don't want ya apologizin' for other mechs' sins, certainly not mine.”  
  
“I wish to please you,” Prowl said. The sincerity with which he spoke and broadcasted was unexpected and both spark warming and spark breaking for Jazz. “I do not wish my presence to cause you discomfort.”  
  
“I get that, 'n that's what's troublin' me," the Polihexian said. "Would ya say no to me, would ya think that ya could, if I asked somethin' of ya that ya didn't want?"  
  
In the silence that followed, Jazz's spark pulsed painfully in his chassis. That Prowl hadn't answered him immediately was a distressing sign. Did the mech truly think he couldn't say no to him? Jazz had no idea how he could proceed if this was so.  
  
"If you wished to do me harm, I would refuse you," the Praxian replied, after an agonizing klik. "If you attempted to harm me, I would defend myself. If you wished a simple whim indulged, I do not believe I would deny you, simply because I see no need to."  
  
"Not because y're afraid too?" Jazz asked.  
  
"If you wish something of me, I do not wish to give, I will decline without fear," Prowl amended. "This is what you would prefer?"  
  
"Yes, Pit yes," the Polihexian said, releasing a vent of relief. "That's what I want."  
  
"Very well then," the Praxian replied. He gave Jazz a pointed look and said: "if my behaviour is remiss, will you instruct me so that I can remedy the issue to the best of my abilities?"  
  
“Ya don't need to act special for me,” Jazz insisted. "I'd rather ya acted like yerself."  
  
"Myself is not a pleasing mech," Prowl countered. "Certainly not by the standards of Polihex."  
  
"How do ya mean?" The Prince asked.  
  
"Your court is a collective of gregarious mechs," Prowl explained. "Every activity, however menial, is a social call... I am ill-suited to this..."  
  
"Ya like yer alone time," Jazz said, he smiled and cocked his helm at Prowl. "I dig it, Mech. I don't expect ya to become the court's social director. If I'd like ya to accompany me to some event, I'll ask ya 'n ya can still say no. Otherwise, ya can do what ya like 'n I'll be happy."  
  
Though Jazz had sought Prowl out to ask him about his tactical experience and if he thought he would like to serve the Polihexian Enforcers in an observer/adviser capacity, Jazz thought it best to leave the conversation for next cycle. The joor wasn't so late just yet, and while he thought the Praxian looked relieved, he still looked worn and strained. He looked like he needed a long recharge.  
  
"If you are certain," the Praxian replied.  
  
“I am," the Polihexian confirmed. He swept his visor over Prowl's frame and nodded to himself. "Ya look like ya could use a good ‘charge, let me help ya up."  
  
Jazz got the impression that Prowl was about to deny any need for help but something kept the Praxian quiet. He nodded slowly and let Jazz help him to his peds. Prowl didn't complain when Jazz wrapped an arm around his lower back. Even if the prince didn't know what to do with the gesture of support, Jazz needed to offer it. It would be difficult, he was coming to realize, to convince Prowl that his own desires and comfort were as important to Jazz as his own. The Praxian was not here simply for Jazz's pleasure, whatever their procreators may have imagined.  
  
The berthroom immediately illuminated when the door slid open at Prowl's command. Jazz noted that the room was unchanged since he had visited it prior to the Praxian's arrival. It was rather opulent, decorated in rich Polihexian style. Prowl had not yet personalized the room. There was not even the slightest change to the furnishings, or layout. Surely the prince had brought personal possessions with him? Or did he not expect to remain long enough to bother decorating?  
  
“Don'tcha have anything from Praxus?” Jazz asked. Prowl twitched a doorwing, the edge of the sensory wing lightly grazed the Polihexian's arm.  
  
“My possessions have been delayed,” the Praxian explained. “They did not arrive with me.”  
  
“I'll have to find out what's holdin' up,” the Polihexian said. He frowned as a thought dawned on him and he gestured to the berth, decorated with a black warming blanket woven with red, silver and blue embroidery, in the colours of Jazz's clan's crest. "So is this berth alright for your doorwings? Somemech told me Lord Grandfall has a berth he specially ordered from Praxus for when he stays in Polihex."  
  
“The berth is firmer than is ideal for my frame-type,” Prowl admitted. “However it is serves its purpose.”  
  
“It hurts,” the Polihexian stated, as his processor cycled through every image it had saved of Prowl since he had arrived. He had moved gracefully, if economically when he had first arrived but with each passing orn, stiffness and tension had been slowly distorting his movements, culminating in this dark-cycle where the prince had slipped slowly back into a slump every time he straightened. Guiltily, Jazz realized that he hadn't even noticed the change, not even when they had interfaced. "Y're frame must be achin’."  
  
“It is bearable,” the Praxian said. That he would admit even that spoke volumes from what little Jazz had come to understand of Prowl's character.  
  
“I'll get'cha a better berth,” Jazz promised. He raised a servo to stall the Praxian's protest. "This is yer berth ‘n yer rooms. Ya have the right to be comfortable."  
  
“Thank you,” Prowl replied. His doorwings dip slightly, softening his stance. Jazz kissed his cheekplate. He winced apologetically as the other mech stiffened in surprise.  
  
“No problem, Prowl,” he said. Jazz place a single servo on the plating shielding Prowl's doorwing joints. The plating was warm than the rest of the Praxian's frame, a sure sign that the protoform beneath was in significant pain. Frowning, he rubbed the smooth metal. “Y're really hurtin', aren't ya?”  
  
“Yes,” the prince admitted. From the vibrations of his plating, Jazz knew that Prowl wanted to shy from his touch, not that he blamed the mech.  
  
“I think I can help, if ya'll let me,” he offered.  
  
“I would appreciate the assistance,” Prowl replied. Jazz smiled, grateful that the Praxian was willing to trust him even this much.  
  
Jazz stood close to Prowl's side, and watched the Praxian's face as he activate the magnets in his servo, sending low strength pulse through the heated plating. Surprise brightened Prowl's optics before they dimmed and his whole frame, expression and all, relaxed. Relief flared in his field as the discomfort ebbed. Pleasure simmered beneath it. Next time they interfaced, it was inevitable that they would sooner or later, Jazz would test his magnets out on the whole of Prowl's doorwings. With the right touch, he just might be able to overload Prowl just through his doorwings. It was a thought to consider for later. For now though, easing Prowl's discomfort was his only goal and when he could no longer teek discomfort and the frame beneath his servo was totally relaxed, he stopped.  
  
“Feel better?” He asked.  
  
“Yes,” Prowl replied as he straightened. He still looked exhausted, maybe even more so than before, but he looked far less strained. The burden of hiding his pain must have been draining. Prowl inclined his helm saying: “much better, thank you.”  
  
“If y'er ever hurtin', whatever the cause, I want ya to tell me, ya dig?” Jazz said. Prowl glanced at him, a small frown on his thin lipplates. After a klik, he nodded his helm.  
  
“Yes, Jazz,” he replied, acquiescing.  
  
“Good mech,” the Sovereign cheered. He gestured to the berth: "get some ‘charge. Would ya join me for the mid-cycle meal so we can talk more?"  
  
“I will,” the prince agreed. "Good recharge, Jazz."  
  
Leaving Prowl to recharge, Jazz left the prince's berthroom. He paused briefly in the Praxian's great room and wondered if the berth was so terrible for his frame, could the rest of his furnishing be just as bad? It was too late in the mega-cycle to question Lord Grandfall about furniture. It was not, however too late to harass Tracks about Prowl's possessions. If anymech could find out what was going on, it was Tracks. Though Jazz suspected that the answer would not be so complicated to find. No doubt, Emperor Veneer had something to do with it.  
  
:“Are ya up, Tracks?” Jazz asked.  
  
:"I am," Tracks replied. “No doubt you wish to meet.”  
  
:“My garden,” the Prince said as confirmation. “I'll meet you there.”  
  
  
Tracks was waiting for Jazz when he arrived. Given it had taken Jazz only a klik to arrive, he suspected that the viceroy had been waiting to find out how it went with Prowl. Jazz flopped dramatically onto the bench of his nook before taking a bottle of engex from his subspace, along with two small cylindrical cups.  
  
“You look slagged,” Tracks observed. “It went poorly, then?”  
  
"Prowl overheard us in the library, my accent, the council," Jazz revealed. “He didn't take it well.”  
  
“I imagine not,” the Urayan said.  
  
"I think we worked that out," the Polihexian sighed. “He needed to know where he stood with me ‘n we're workin' it out. He wants me to talk like ME. If he can handle my crass glossa, w’re meshin’ better than I thought.”  
  
“I'm pleased to hear it,” Tracks replied. “I take it you did not discuss his simulations.”  
  
"No, but I learned a bit about his tactical systems," Jazz said. “They give 'm some grief, he gets a 'lil lost in'em at times, I think.”  
  
“That isn't an uncommon issue for tacticians,” the viceroy revealed. "Especially those with modifications. It is said that each Praxian prince has a unique mod. It is unlikely that he emerged with them."  
  
“Sounds right,” the Prince said, before taking a sip of engex. "On the subject of Praxus, Prowl's stuff ain't shown up yet a’n I wanna put pressure on Praxus to deliver'em. Veneer's probably holdin' on to 'em just to frag with Prowl, 'n I'd like to give him a bit a Pit for it. I also need a rush on a Praxian style berth. Get the court artisans on it, first thing. To hold 'm until their done, I want a new pad for Prowl's berth by the next dark-cycle. He's been hurtin' since he first got here ‘n hasn't felt safe to complain."  
  
“There will be a suitable berth top in his room by the time he goes to recharge next orn,” Tracks promised. “I will begin snarling in the appropriate Praxian audials at first light.”  
  
“Y're the mech, Tracks,” Jazz cheered.  
  
“May I suggest that you spoil the Imperial Prince a touch to make up for his discomfort?” The viceroy said.  
  
“Oh?" The Sovereign asked, surprised Tracks would make such a suggestion.  
  
“Reserve the oil baths for your shared or his private use for a few joors next dark-cycle,” Tracks suggested. “I suspect he would enjoy a soak.”  
  
A grin crossed Jazz's faceplates as he thought back to what Prowl had said. Every menial task in the Palace was a public affair; that included oil baths, and solvent baths a like. Prowl wasn't likely comfortable bathing publicly. Jazz clapped his servos together as a plan formed in his processor. He took another sip of engex and said:  
  
“Now that, Tracks, is a stroke 'o genius.  
  
End Chapter 4  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the first new chapter of Cloak and Mask! You have not read this before!
> 
> Heads up my fellow crazies. We're entering the busiest season of my industry, yes Christmas, yes it is September, no I am not joking. So my writing time might be getting eaten up with overtime. I've still got a cushion in Cloak and Mask, but depending on the next month and so on goes my updating may get more erratic.
> 
> Also I am covered in glitter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

Despite Prowl’s inclination to blame himself for their miscommunication, Jazz knew the fault was considerably more his own, and he knew he owed the Praxian both an apology, and a reward for putting up with all the slag he had been put through, not only by Jazz, but by Emperor Veneer, that fragging rapist, the sovereign’s own court, well the list could probably go on for mega-cycles, but Jazz was not willing to waste the processor power on it. He rescheduled all meetings with his council set for the mega-cycle, but kept those with the court artisans, and the the essential business of meeting with the leaders of Polihex’s border cities. In between these meetings, he planned the mega-cycle to come.

 

“With some small manoeuvrings I managed to make contact with the Crown Prince of Praxus,” Tracks revealed when he arrived to update Jazz on his light-cycle’s work. “Prince Smokescreen was less than pleased to hear that the Emperor was harassing his brother in this way. He will be seeing to it that Prince Prowl’s possessions arrive in Polihex before the end of the orn.”

 

“Clever, Tracks,” Jazz replied with a broad grin. “Wasn’t sure how you were gonna get Veneer to release Prowl’s stuff... The brother’s probably just gonna ship it off himself.”

 

“That was my thought,” the viceroy said. “I visited the artisans, you’d already lit a fire under them, I notice. They’re well on their way to designing an entire suite’s worth of furnishings for Prince Prowl. And you.”

 

“Me?” The sovereign prince asked. “Don’t remember askin’ for that.”

 

“Sketches for now,” Tracks explained, almost dismissively. “Seems they think the prince regnant needs furnishing that match him, not relics of princes past.”

 

“Huh,” Jazz murmured, more to himself. He looked to his adviser, wondering what had motivated the Urayan to employ the artisans to redo Jazz’s rooms as well. “I’ll have to take a look. I traded out my ‘genitor’s slag for whate’er was hangin’ around, but it would be nice to have somethin’ that’s just mine.”

 

“I will tell them to expect you,” the Urayan said, with a bow.

 

“Tracks, you haven’t said a thing ‘bout my accent this light-cycle, what’s up?” The Polihexian asked. Tracks looked at him with surprise before squaring his shoulders and releasing a vent.

 

“Prince Prowl may have had a point,” Tracks replied. “I recommend against descending into the lowest vernacular you know, but your subjects know you were not raised in the court. If they believe you are wearing a mask, they won’t trust you. You need their loyalty, and their love. That’s your greatest defence against any machinations from Raisonne’s clan, or any of the others.”

 

“Don’tcha think it’ll be strange if I suddenly start talkin’ like this?” Jazz asked, though Track’s suggestion was exactly what he had been dreaming of doing for quartexes.

 

“The public at large haven’t heard you speak,” the viceroy reminded him. “Due to mourning protocol. You won’t even address Polihex until your official crowning the first orn of quartex Solomnii. Servants have heard you slip up, the courtiers gossip worst than any frame of mechanism. Simply speak how you wish to speak, they will hear some of themselves in you, and that will make up for a great deal.”

 

“Maybe I’ll give it a try,” the sovereign said. “Council ain’t gonna like it.”

 

“You are prince regnant of Polihex,” Tracks declared, with a flare of his small wings. “Order them to delete any argument from their processors. You do not require their permission.”

 

“You’ve been nudgin’ me to work with them,” Jazz observed, crossing his arms. “What’s changed, Tracks? What makes you think all of a sudden I can take’em on without a fraggin’ war?”

 

“The populace will be enthralled when they see your emblem on the Maestro’s banner,” the Urayan replied, largely sidestepping the sovereign’s question. “They are already celebrating the increased funding to the university, and youth centres. Thus far you are making most all the correct moves. The only thing you lack is confidence in your role.”

 

“Thanks Tracks,” the Polihexian said, a sinking feeling in his tank. “Your just about the only voice I trust.”

 

“I will endeavour not to let you down,” Track replied. “I will leave you to your plans.”

 

The idea of ditching the courtly accent in favour of his natural speech was too tempting to ignore, though he was a bit dubious as to what inspired the viceroy to make this suggestion. Tracks was a lifetime politician and Jazz could just trust what he teeked, or what the mech said, though he had for the last stellar-cycle. All of a sudden he had to question if this may not have been in error. If his one trusted adviser could not be trusted... No. He needed to trust Tracks, at least where Polihex was concerned, but at the same time, Jazz had to take the blinders off.

 

Prowl could be trusted, the sovereign was certain of this, down to the core of his spark. Whether he wanted to advise Jazz, whether using an Amica Endura as an adviser was really a wise idea, the Polihexian did not know. They had gotten off to a terrible start, and the blame there lay at Jazz’s peds. There was no affection, not even on the most platonic level between them, but there was some mutual respect. The sovereign had to hope that Prowl could be an ally, after all the Praxian prince was an emerged and reared aristocrat. True, Polihex was a world apart from Praxus, but nobility was nobility, Prowl had to know how to handle their machinations, his advice could be immeasurable.

 

It was almost time for their fuel date, and with that realization, he was off. Jazz wove his way through the gardens. It was not a short cut, rather a detour to avoid his antsy councillors. He had nearly made it to the gates to his private garden when he saw Prowl. Staying in the shadows of a trio of towering crystals, Jazz watched as the Praxian completed a series of Diffusion forms. Now the Polihexian understood what had been familiar about Prowl’s court dance. The prince had worked forms from the martial arts into his dance. Prowl may have been a novice dancer, but if the complexity of the form, and the ease with which he moved through them were any clue, the Praxian was a Diffusion master. Though his curiosity was peaked, out of respect, Jazz remained in the shadows, off to the side and out of range of Prowl’ doorwings, until the other mech had finished with his exercise. When Prowl stood straight, the sovereign stepped out of the crystals’ shadows.

 

“Diffusion, am I right?” Jazz asked. Prowl inclined his helm in doorwings, not an answer but a deferential bow.

 

“Yes... Jazz,” the Praxian replied. The pause before his name did not escape Jazz. He appreciated the effort Prowl was making to respected his wishes, although active defiance of them would not have been a terrible thing either.

 

“Did ya Master it?” The sovereign prince asked, conversationally, as he approached. “Circuit-Su and Metallikato were more my specialty. Mastered Circuit-Su, not sure I even count as a novice in Metallikato.”

 

“I continue to study Circuit-Su,” Prowl said. “I have Mastered Diffusion, though there is always more to learn.”

 

“Spoken like a Master I knew in Simfur,” Jazz replied. “’M impressed. I’d like to spar sometime, if y’er willin’.”

 

“I would appreciate the opportunity.” the prince of Praxus affirmed, and he was Jazz thought sincere.

 

“Sweet!” The Polihexian cheered, he was practically giddy at the thought. By Primus they had something in common, a starting point they could work with. “I thought we’d taken our fuel in my garden before takin’ a lil drive.”

 

“As you wish,” Prowl replied, and when Jazz gave him a sideways look he amended with a flicker of exasperation in his optics: “I would like to see more of Polihex.”

 

“I’m glad,” Jazz said. “Let’s go.”

 

They walked without speaking, but not in silence. With each of their steps, the crystals vibrating and sang. As with ever other corner of the palace, and Polihex in general, it was alive with music. Unlike their prior interactions, Jazz found the quiet between he and Prowl companionable. It appeared he was not the only one who found this new knowledge of the other welcome, Prowl even appeared more at ease with him. The gates to his garden knew Jazz’s spark signature, and they opened when the pair approached. In the far corner, a low nook and table had been prepared for their arrival, with goblets of energon, and plates of crystal delicacies waiting. More importantly, the nook had been outfitted with new cushion, just as Jazz had requested. Prowl ought to be able to sit comfortably here.

 

“It is an attractive space,” the Praxian prince said, and Jazz found himself preening.

 

“Thank ya,” the prince regnant replied. “It’s one of my favourite spots.”

 

“The cushions appear new,” Prowl observed, and he looked at Jazz with unreadable optics.

 

“I want ya comfortable,” Jazz said. “I like pillows... Ya might remember... so I don’t suffer none for makin’ sure you’re not in pain just from sittin’ with me.”

 

“Thank you,” the subordinate prince replied. The Polihexian watched as his companion sat, and was pleased to see that the cushioning did as he had hoped it would, it supported the Praxian’s doorwings.

 

“So my viceroy got a hold of the Crown Prince,” Jazz revealed as he too took his seat, to Prowl’s left. “Yer brother will be makin’ sure yer belongs are here before orn’s end. A new pad is bein’ added to yer berth until a proper one is built. This is your home now, Prowl. Changin’ it to suit ya isn’t wrong.”

 

“I did not wish to trouble you,” Prowl said, the ice in his optics seemed somewhat thinner. It was sad to think basic kindness was all it really took.

 

“No trouble,” the sovereign replied. “The viceroy decided I outta get my own suite redone too, ‘n I kinda agree. I’ve been usin’ whatever scrap looked best from some of our guest suites... I didn’t wanna use my ‘genitor’s... or anyone else’s berths. I ain’t my ‘genitor, I wouldn’t wanna be if I could, so I’m changin’ my palace, my court, ‘n my principality to suite me. Tracks said I should drop the fake manners ‘n speak like this... I wanna give it a try. But... do you think it might not be a disaster.”

 

“I believe your subjects will bond to you best if you are authentic,”the Praxian replied, watching Jazz with those perceptive optics. “Your viceroy is not wrong. Avoid cursing and the public will accept or learn to accept your mannerisms. You may receive some derision, but you will suffer that, however you speak due to the order of your emergence, your upbringing beyond Polihex’s borders and your very age. Should you use your false accent, and it becomes public knowledge that you actually speak differently, it will only bring you more trouble, which will only aid those that would undermine you.”

 

“That sounds... kinda right,” Jazz said. “Thank ya. Any time ya got advice for me, please give it. Ya must have figured by know that I don’t know what I’m fraggin’ doin’.”

 

“I spent my earliest vorns in isolation but I did spend my younglinghood in my procreator’s court,” Prowl revealed. “Any help that I might be, I would be honoured to provide. My only suggestion would be to avoid using my designation when utilizing any suggestion of mine. You would only be mocked for taking the advice of a courtesan.”

 

“You ain’t a courtesan,” the Polihexian declared, with more temper than he intended. There was a shift in Prowl’s optics, they glance cast subtly doubt as his doorwings dipped against the cushion. “You are my official Amica Endura, ‘n it’s a slaggin’ garbage title but y’aren’t an expensive berthwarmer, ‘n anymech that suggests it will regret it.”

 

“Jazz...” the Praxian began to speak.

 

“No,” Jazz interrupted, stubborn and firm in his conviction. “I’m sorry I went along with that garbage. Sorry for ya, ‘n ashamed of me. You’re fraggin’ smart, ‘n ‘m not sayin’ courtesans can’t be, they can be some of the wiliest mechanisms ‘cause they gotta survive, but pleasure is also their business ‘n that ain’t yours... You’re just too fraggin’ smart. Tracks found your sims, ‘n holy frag any general would kill for a mech with yer processors.”

 

“You are not displeased I ran those simulations?” Prowl asked, frame tensing minutely.

 

“Primus no,” the sovereign exclaimed. “You gotta understand that I want ya to be happy, ‘n if not happy, satisfied with yer lot here. When we’re finished here, I’ve arranged for us to meet the Praefectus of my Enforcers. Ya can observe at first ‘n when y’re both ready, ya can advise.”

 

“Surely the Praefectus will... scoff at having a... having me as an observer, let alone an adviser,” the struggle the Praxian prince had just to speak all but broke Jazz’ spark. Prowl so obviously wanted this, his monotone facade was brittle with cracks. He had told Jazz that it took a greater emotional load to cause a reaction in him, how powerful must the fear, and hope and everything else be in Prowl right at this instant.

 

“I have your sims, “Jazz said. “More importantly, frag it all, ’m the slaggin’ Sovereign Prince o’ Polihex. The Praefectus’ll do what I want alright, if I have to make’m, so be it. After hearin’ and seein’ what ya can do, even if he resists at first, he’ll be grovelling at my peds for a chance to have ya on board. Trust me on this, Prowl.”

 

“I will trust you,” Prowl replied. “Thank you.”

 

It was kind of amazing how important that those little glyph felt.

 

***

 

Inwardly, Prowl quaked with fear. At least half of the fear was of crashing if he could not put himself to rights. Really, the worst that could happen would be the Praefectus Vigilium’s refusal, and Jazz appeared quite ready to counter any protests. Still, the Praxian prince was terrified. A chance to serve with Enforcers again was perhaps his greatest hope, and it was one so easily crushed. The sovereign... Jazz appeared jovial, and confident, and unlike their previous encounters where Prowl had come to understand the confidence to be a mask, this was genuine. Jazz was confident he could accomplish what he wished to, and the Praxian found himself caught up in the power of the other mech’s drive. It was processor boggling, all that the sovereign... all that Jazz had decided to do for him. If it was to make up for the interface, for Prowl’s situation in general, it hardly matter. That he was making the attempts, that he was paying real mind to what the Praxian might want, that was what matter to Prowl. Bluestreak had been correct, though his younger brother had had no way of knowing it at the time he had spoken, Polihex’s ruling prince was indeed a kind mech, and a wholly unconventional one as well.

 

 

The drive through Polihex was a pleasant one, and one without the benefit, or interference of guards. Their alt-modes allowed them ambiguity, and it was plainly clear to Prowl that Jazz relished this small freedom. Given how much focus the Polihexian had put into the Praxian’s comfort and happiness this mega-cycle, Prowl thought it best to give him this. As it was, the route to Polihex’s Enforcer headquarters was along the principality’s busiest road, and filled with mechanism, they were not in any change, camouflaged amongst sea of mult-inational alt-modes even Prowl’s foreign alt-mode blended in.

 

After a half joor’s drive, they arrived at the tall, mural covered building that served as Enforcer Command. Jazz transformed, and Prowl followed his lead. The Polihexian gave him a proud, and reassuring smile, and led the way into the building. It look, on the inside at least, not unlike Praxus’ own Enforcer headquarters. There was a large lobby, with its walls also covered in murals. Low benches lined one wall, while a long desk, staffed with a pair of Enforcers, controlled access to the station’s inner room. Recognition lit up the optics of one of the Enforcer, and he beckoned Jazz and Prowl into the station proper, without speaking. The Enforcer waited until they were away from civilian audials before properly greeting his monarch.

 

“Serene Highness, what can the Enforcers do for you?” The Enforcer asked, bowing at the shoulders. Unlike the courtiers and nobles, and Prowl himself, the Enforcer did not prostrate himself at the sovereign’s peds upon meeting him.

 

“Enforcer Stakeout,” Jazz said. “I gotta meetin’ with the Praefectus Vigilum under the designation Meister.”

 

“I will take you to his office. “Crosshairs, take the desk.”

 

As simple of an action as it was, Prowl was pleased that their escort had called another Enforcer to join the one still covering the desk. It was preferable, whenever possible for Enforcers to remain in pairs, there were times where their survival depending on two sets of optics, two comms, and two guns. Jazz gave Prowl a quick look of pleasure. If the Enforcer had any concerns with the sovereign prince’s accent, it did not show in his field or his faceplates. The only thing Prowl could teak was excitement. How often could an Enforcer of high rank, let alone a corporal claim to meet, and to speak with their sovereign, let alone claim the sovereign knew him by name? Stakeout all but buzzed with glee as he led them onto the elevator. The atmosphere was electric.

 

“I toured a lotta the public works when I started my duties,” Jazz explained. “Enforcer Stakeout was workin’ the desk when I toured here. Stakeout, my Amica Endura, Prince Prowl of Praxus, served the Enforcers in his homeland.”

 

“Is it much different in Praxus, Your Highness?” Stakeout asked.

 

“While the styles of our command centres differ, the core is the same,” Prowl replied. “The spark of the Enforcers serving them is the same.”

 

Pride bloomed in Enforcer Stakeout’s field and it surprised Prowl to find that he had actually said the correct thing. Jazz gave him a look of approval, and the Praxian felt some pride and pleasure bloom in his own spark. He dared to hope that the Enforcers in Polihex might actually want him, despite the shame the title Amica Endura cause Prowl, perhaps it really was not a shameful thing to the Polihexian. The thought did not precisely ease the Praxian prince’s shame, because the seed of that shame was planted too deep, and planted and blooming in Praxus, long before he had ever arrived in Polihex.

 

The Praefectus Vigilum was standing at his office doors when Enforcer Stakeout let the regal pair to him. Like Enforcer Stakeout, only bowed at the shoulders. Prowl approved of this as well. Enforcers and military officers needed to be able to do their duty without the interference of ceremony. This did not mean they would not how respect to their sovereign, only that they would remain focused on their duties, at all times. There was curiosity in the Enforcer commander’s optics, and they were not focused on Jazz but not Prowl.

 

“Good ‘cycle Praefectus Vigilum,” Jazz greeted. “I’ve brought my official Amica Endura to meet ya. I want him to observe yer Enforcers, ‘n eventually advise them, ‘n ya. He served Praxus’ Criminal Intelligence Section with a rather impressive record, ‘m told.”

 

“Serene Highness, Your Highness,” the Praefectus Vigilum said, inclining his helm to Prowl, showing some deference, but less than he had to his sovereign.

 

“Praefectus Vigilum,” Prowl offered his own greeting.

 

“Have you been out of service for long?” The Enforcer commander asked. The question was pointed, but spoken with a conversational air. Jazz watched on, without interjecting, and allowed Prowl to speak for himself.

 

“I closed my last investigation the same mega-cycle I boarded the transport to Polihex,” the Praxian replied. He had expected questions, and they did not offend him. It would have been more disturbing if the Praefectus Vigilum had gone along with Jazz’s request without some questions.

 

“Then you are not out of practice,” the Praefectus Vigilum said. “Would you join me, Your Serene Highness, and Your Highness.”

 

Jazz placed a servo low on Prowl’s back and for a nanoklik he wondered why. The unspoken question was answered as the Polihexian prince guiding him on, keeping Prowl at his side, walking as equals. This breech of protocol would never have passed in Praxus, but Polihex was Jazz’s principality, and the prince regnant had said he was going to change it to suit him, this may have been one of his first steps. Though Prowl would not lie to himself and claim that the gesture did not unnerve him, it was still oddly comforting. Perhaps it was this that unnerved him.

 

“There is an investigation that has troubled me for... vorns,” the Enforcer Commander explained as he led them back to the elevator. “Since I was a metaforensics investigator myself. Recently we have made progress but before we can present it to the Priests of Solomus, there are a few points that trouble me, and must be resolved. Your Highness, perhaps you could look at the murder board with a new pair of optics.”

 

“I would be pleased to be of assistance,” Prowl replied, meaning every glyph. He had not expected this. Jazz’s servo curled against the Praxian’s back, and satisfaction radiated from his EM field.

 

“I don’t want to taint your opinion,” the Praefectus Vigilum said. “I’ll only tell you the basics of the case. Shiftstick was a student at one of the small conservatories here in central Polihex. He was found dead, outside a warehouse in the industrial centre, a considerable distance from his dormitory. The cause of death was rule a suicide, by means of circuit booster overdose. There was a note. The family insisted that the note was forged, and that the suicide was staged. Due to their concerns, I eventually investigated the death, early in my career.”

 

“You came to agree with the family,” the Praxian observed.

 

“Yes,” the Enforcer commander confirmed. “I took samples of his code, employed a mnemosurgeon, took paint scrapings.”

 

“Show me your evidence,” Prowl said. “And I will give you my opinion.”

 

The Praefectus Vigilum had called it a murder board, and it was an accurate enough description. Notes, image captures, and all manners of evidence were held together on a holo-imager, lined up in such a way as to connect invisible dots. Prowl saw the dots in his processor, and added more of his own connections, removed what was insignificant. He called up the case file, and read it from beginning to end in under a bream, when he found he still had questions, Prowl accessed the data-net and scoured for any personal sites belonging to the deceased.

 

“He had a lover of a higher station,” Prowl observed. “He is your suspect, I believe. Shiftstick was expecting to rendezvous with him the dark-cycle he died. The mnemosurgeon found his thoughts, mixed feelings in regards to the coming meeting. Anxiety, anger, hope, and desperation. He did not find depression, addiction, or any intent of suicide, or even that he had ever used or possessed circuit boosters. In his code there is no evidence that he had ever used the narcotics, and they do leave a permanent record in the code of a user. I analyzed the copy of his code, he was not a user. There is evidence that he might have been in the early stages of carrying, half written protocols are present. It would be a reason for his lover to fear. If Shiftstick expected him to do his duty as the progenitor, it would have been problematic for a mech with expensive tastes, an empty credit chip, and an engagement with a very wealthy business mech.”

 

“Yes,” the Praefectus Vigilum said, nodding quickly. “The medics said it was early enough that Shiftstick would not likely have known, but I suspected differently. His friends said he was distracted, exhausted, and his tutors said he was failing to learn the dance required for his acceptance into the conservatory’s novice troop. Thrasher has since bonded to that business mech, if that matters. I was unaware that evidence of circuit booster was written on a mechanisms code.”

 

“The science is new,” the Praxian prince said. “First utilized in Iacon, eight vorns ago. It has received very little media attention. The world is not concerned with the code of addicts.”

 

“But the Priests of Solomus will be intrigued,” the Enforcer Commander said, a new energy in his field. “As you said, there is no evidence he had ever thought of purchasing boosters.”

 

“There is evidence he was restrained,” Prowl revealed, and the Praefectus stared at him, Prowl gestured to image captures of the victims. “There are small indentations on his wrists, on his protoform, not his armour. Narrow cabling leaves such indentations, rather than surface burns like stasis cuffs.’

 

“I’ve never heard of such... archaic restraints,” the Praefectus Vigilum gasped. “In any case.”

 

“They are used within noble houses in Praxus, at the very least, to contain mentally deficient kinsmech, without leaving the telltale burn from stasis cuffs,” the prince explained. “If the frame has not been recycled, the evidence will still be there.”

 

“Shiftstick’s remains were placed in his family’s crypt,” the Enforcer Commander said. “I can have it exhumed. His family won’t protest. After so much time, they’re barely clinging to hope for justice.”

 

“Were multiple booster found, or one large one?” Prowl asked.

 

“Three,” The Praefectus Vigilum said. “There were three individual injections.”

 

“Having never taken circuit boosters before, one would have left him incapacitated,” the Praxian declared after going over the evidence again. “He could not have injected himself twice, let alone three times. Shiftstick was murdered. If you look, you will likely find evidence that his lover had been retrained at one or more times in the manner used on Shiftstick. He likely injected his victim with the first circuit booster on arrival at Shiftstick home, as the mnemosurgeon found no evidence that Shiftstick knowingly left his dormitory. Addled by the boosters, it would have been easy to transport him to the warehouse, and restrained as he was, had Shiftstick come around, he would have been powerless to fight. You already have evidence that Thrasher dabbled in circuit boosters. Present him with the evidence, with appropriate pressure, I believe you will get a confession.”

 

“I’ll do just that,” the Enforcer Commander confirmed. “May I alert you, Your Highness, to the result of the interrogation?”

 

“Please do,” Prowl replied.

 

“I take it y’re on board with Prowl observin’?” Jazz asked, interjecting for the first time since they had been shown the murder board.

 

“Draft a schedule and I’ll make it work,” the Praefectus Vigilum said. “I promise you, Your Serene Highness, my Enforcers will keep Prince Prowl safe while he is with us.”

 

“I believe you will,” the sovereign replied. “Are you ready to go, Prowl?”

 

“Yes, my lord,” Prowl confirmed. “Thank you for the opportunity, Praefectus Vigilum.”

 

As they walked from the Enforcer station, Jazz looped his arm around Prowl’s back, his field rippled with pride, and approval. It took a klik for the Praxian to realize that this pride and approval was directed at him, and that observation delighted the stoic mech. Perhaps attempting to please Jazz with his frame had always been a misguided notion. Prowl’s processor would not rust with boredom, trapped in the high walls of the palace, he would again have a function that would fulfill him. The relief was almost too much to process.

 

“When we get home, we’ll make an appearance at the table, ‘n have our fuel,” Jazz said. “After, I’ve reserved the oil bath for your use.”

 

“For me?” Prowl asked.

 

“I thought’d help with the last of your aches,” the Polihexian explained. The thought of a long soak in an oil bath, as his every joint groaned, was nearly enough to make Prowl to weep with joy, instead he smiled.

 

***

 

As small, and shy as the smile was, it brought immense relief to Jazz’s spark. Prowl could smile, and it was a sweet smile. The amount of relief it brought the Polihexian was surprising. Jazz had imagined that he would have eventually gotten used to associating with such a stoic mech. Though he had already witness Prowl fall apart in despair, that absolute shattering of the Praxian’s blank facade, but Jazz had feared that only grief, and anger could break down his Amica Endura’s walls, and he could not imagine wishing for Prowl to suffer another blow. The knowledge that the Praxian could actually smile, would want to smile at him, gave Jazz hope. He was not confident that he would fall in love with Prowl, or that Prowl would fall for him, but Jazz thought there could be fondness, and there could be respect, and that was more than his progenitor had ever achieved. Perhaps it was not the loftiest of goal, but the Polihexian held in close to his spark nonetheless.

 

It was not luck that they arrived at the palace after the bulk of the court had taken their final meal of the mega-cycle. Jazz had not left the timing to something as fickle as chance. Sharing a quiet meal with the Praxian was considerably more pleasant that holding court over a meal with two hundred other mechanisms. Though he still did not teek anything in his Amica Endura’s field, the Praxian seemed lighter, and prouder. Knowing that he had taken the step to make this happened, made Jazz feel lighter a well. Guilt over their power imbalance would probably be slow to fade, if it ever fully did, but it felt a lot less crippling at this nanoklik.

 

The newly reupholstered chair Prowl sat in seemed more comfortable for the Praxian, though it was not exactly obvious. But Jazz was watching the other mech very carefully, and a life as a spy had given the Polihexian rather fantastic observational skills. Prowl was holding his doorwings higher, not oddly high but more balanced, and from what Jazz had observed in other Praxians, this was the neutral position of doorwings. Higher yet would signify anger or excitement, lower sadness, or exhaustion, apart from the first couple of mega-cycles after his arrival in Polihex, Prowl’s doorwings had been dipped just slightly too low, depression might have been part of their low angle, but Jazz thought pain and exhaustion had probably been the biggest factor. How could a mech in constant, chronic pain be expected to recharge?

 

Prowl did not move his doorwings as he spoke, not much in any case, not like Ambassador Grandfall or his recently departed retinue, mostly he held them perfectly still. Given Jazz knew Praxian’s had their own silent language, spoken entirely with their doorwings, it was curious that Prowl did not speak with his. It may have been deference to Jazz, who would not be expected to speak it, but it could be something else, it could be tied to his over active tactical systems, or it could be caution, a fear of “saying” something that could be misinterpreted by some observer.

 

“How did you know about that cabling?” Jazz asked as the question popped into his processor.

 

“I was restrained on multiple occasions as a sparkling,” Prowl explained, his speech, though monotone, still unusually slow and quiet, as he chose his glyphs carefully. “I was curious and would venture beyond my assigned space. Rather than lock doors and hamper their own movements, my caretakers would keep me restrained.”

 

“Holy Primus,” the Polihexian cursed, keeping his volume down to match Prowl’s. This was not a conversation he wanted overheard. “Sparklin’s are ‘sposed to be curious.”

 

“Smokescreen intervened, and saw that my restraints be removed permanently,” the subordinate prince explained. “Through his efforts I joined our procreator’s court when I became a youngling. The Emperor has exiled each of his creations, for some period or another. He kindled out of necessity, because he required heirs, not because he had any desire to raise sparklings, and so he did not, raise us that is. We had caretakers. Mine was not the most diligent of mechanisms.”

 

“That won’t happen here,” Jazz said, anger burning in his optics, almost certainly showing as a bright glow in his visor. “If we kindle, we’ll raise the bitlet. I ain’t tossin’ any creation o’ mine off to some servant.”

 

“I believe I would find that preferable,” Prowl replied, doorwings shifting up and down a fraction as he pondered the idea. “I assume Polihex has its own tradition regarding creations. I will, of course, defer to you.”

 

“Any luck we got some time before we need to worry ‘bout that,” the sovereign said. In any other instance, he had balked at the idea of Prowl deferring to him, but given what the mech had revealed of his sparklinghood, Jazz was not inclined to follow too many Praxian traditions.

 

Prowl could already be carrying. The thought almost stopped Jazz’s spark. They were still more strangers than acquaintances in many ways. It seemed insane that within the vorn, they could be facing the emergence of a newspark. As overwhelming as the thought was for Jazz, he could not imagine how much more so it must be for the Praxian. There were not contraceptives permitted to the Official Amica Endura, the only way to avoid kindling was to avoid interfacing, and that would bring its own scandals, already was if the whispers Jazz had already overheard meant anything. He knew they would interface again, and was less leery of the idea than he had been the dark-cycle before, but Jazz was determined that it would be at Prowl’s urging, not because the Council was pressuring them; he could never bow to that sort of pressure again, never again.

 

“If you’re finished, I’ll take you to the bath,” Jazz declared when he saw both his and Prowl’s plates and goblets were empty.

 

“I am,” Prowl replied. The Polihexian watched the other mech stand, and thought he saw a hint of strain.

 

“It’s not just the doorwings, huh,” he said. “Praxian joints are more sensitive in general?”

 

“I am certain my frame will adjust to Polihexian furniture,” the prince replied.

 

“I gave give you another massage if you’d like that,” Jazz offered, leading his companion down the maze of hallways. “Yer new pad should be ready soon, if it ain’t already. Ya don’t ever need to be uncomfortable.”

 

“I would appreciate that,” Prowl said. They arrived at the bath Jazz had reserved. It was the grandest, with the highest quality oil for the oil bath, and a second solvent bath with very luxurious jets. On most dark-cycles, it held a dozen or more mechanism at any time. This dark-cycle, Prowl would not be disturbed. There was an inscrutable look on the Praxian’s faceplates, before Jazz could question it, Prowl spoke. “Would you wish to join me? It seems, perhaps wasteful to keep the bath for myself.”

 

“Thank you, Prowl,” the sovereign replied, letting gratitude slip into his field. “My magnets work nice in oil. I could give you your massage here, might work even better.”

 

“That would be pleasant,” the Praxian said.

 

Though Jazz could not, and would not claim to feel have the aches Prowl was suffering, the stress of the orns did melt away as he descended the steps into the oil bath. He guided his Amica Endura down the steps and onto the corner bench. The light of Prowl’s optics dimmed slightly as he flared his plating, and let the oil seep through the gaps, to wash over his protoform. Jazz mirrored the gesture and let out a happy vent as heat of the oil washed his stress away. While baths were social affairs here in Polihex, and in Uraya too, Punch had groomed his creation to know that danger lay in even the most mundane places, and Jazz was not any more comfortable with the idea of sharing his bath with courtiers or counts, any more than he though Prowl was.

 

“I’ll start with your peds,” Jazz said, guiding the Praxian’s left ped to rest on his lap.

 

“You do not feel... inconvenienced?” Prowl asked, carefully, his posture stiff.

 

“I like helpin’,” the sovereign replied activated his magnets before deactivating them almost immediately. “If ya’d rather not...”

 

“No, I would like you to continue,” the Praxian said. Jazz watched his companion as he massaged Prowl’s ankle, and then his knee. A low hiss broke over the other mech’s vents, and he almost sagged with relief.

 

By the time Jazz had worked up to Prowl’s arms, the mech was visibly relaxed. You could not describing his posture as a slouch, as he held his back away from the bath’s walls. Jazz would get him there soon enough. He hummed as he worked, running his servos over Prowl’s, and feeling the structures of the Praxian’s digits relax. The smile Jazz had not been consciously aware was on his faceplates bled away as he spotted the narrow indentations along along Prowl’s wrist, just barely visible through the flared plating of his arm. Jazz might have missed it entirely if not for the exact angle with which he held Prowl’s arm.

 

“Do those cables scar?” He asked softly, looking from Prowl’s wrist to his optics which brightened at the question.

 

“If tied too tight, yes,” Prowl replied. He kept Jazz’s optics, though the Polihexian felt him tense. “The Emperor considered charging me with treason when I vocalized my disapproval of his leniency towards my attacker. I was restrained in my personal quarters while he argued with his councillors about the legalities of his plans for me. My younger brother found me unexpectedly, as he had not be scheduled to return from the military exercise he had been assigned for another quartex. In turn, Bluestreak alerted Smokescreen who cut my bonds, and made it clear that he would reap a scandal like nothing our procreator could never imagine if I was harassed further. Within the orn, the Emperor scent a new contract to Sovereign Prince Greyshield. They may never heal more than they have.”

 

“I hope he chokes on a rusty cog,” Jazz hissed, working his thumb digits over the indents. Prowl’s optics brightened and dimmed, and a little shiver passed through his frame. Pleasure, the sovereign thought, good.

 

“He loathes all things rust flavoured,” the Praxian replied. “Perhaps this is where my fondness for rust sticks comes from.”

 

“Rebel,” the Polihexian teased, grinning at Prowl’s deadpan delivery of the joke.

 

He worked on the prince’s wrists for a long time, coaxing the hot oil to flow deep into Prowl’s components. Jazz ran this thumbs over the dented cables, with minimal pressure those he used his magnets at their highest strength. If they worked as he hoped, repair nanites would be attracted to the magnets pull, and just maybe they would finish healing those dents. When he finally finished with his Amica Endura’s arms, he shuffled closer to run his servos over Prowl’s shoulders, chassis, and neck. The plating under his servos was warmer now, and the Praxian’s optics more distant, his tactical systems had gone to work. Jazz refused to feel alarmed or offended. The pleasure of a deep massage could easily be taken from simply pleasant to erotic with a matter of pressure and mood. Prowl could well be debating just what he was feeling, and if he was agreeable to the shifts happening within his frame. Cautious of overstepping, Jazz kept the pressure light.

 

Prowl’s optics were still distant when Jazz directed him to turn around on the bench so Jazz could work on his doorwings, and back. Humming again, Jazz ghosted his servos over the smooth armour that shielded the Praxian’s doorwing joints. Adjusting his magnets to their lowest setting, he smoothed his servos over bases of both broad sensory panels, before working his servos under the armour plate to kneed the very joints. A soft groan escaped Prowl’s vocalizer, and the Praxian sagged forward, coming to rest with his arms at the edge of the bath, and his forehelm resting on his servos.

 

“I apologize,” Prowl whispered, not entirely able to keep breathless arousal from his voice.

 

“None of that,” Jazz said, and he stilled his servos. “It’s good you like it... I’m glad you like it. Why don’t we stop now?”

 

“I think I would like you to continue,” the prince admitted, was there shame in his voice, or did Jazz just feel a brush of the Praxian’s field under his digit tips?

 

Shame, it dawned on Jazz, was probably the emotion that tortured Prowl the most, and it was not one that the Polihexian would be able to sooth in one mega-cycle, if ever and he had no idea where to start, and if he was even the right mech to try. Jazz was starting to feel fond of the mech, and he definitely respected him more than he had any mechanism alive or dead, and the sovereign felt driven to guard him, to sooth him. No one would make Prowl feel shameful in Polihex, not without suffering very dear consequences, foisted upon Jazz or no, the prince of Praxus was his Amica Endura, and no one hurt what was his.

 

“Pleasure is a good thing, a natural thing,” the sovereign said as he returned to the massage, digging his digits deeper, but keeping the pulses low. There was no doubt in his processor now that he could overload the Praxian with ease with those magnet pulses but Jazz intentionally kept the contact low key.

 

Prowl did not answer, not verbally in at least, but he did relax fully under Jazz’s attention, and after another klik, the Polihexian heard his secondary vents opening. Wondering now if he needed to step back at let Prowl cool down, he deactivated his magnets, but kept his servos on Prowl back. The plating under his servos was hot, and it shifted subtly, like a wave. Only now did Jazz recognize the sounds of his own ventilations, giving Prowl the massage, seeing him come just that bit undone had been enough to kick the Polihexian’s own arousal up several notches, and he was instantly disgusted with himself.

 

“Would you care to interface?” Prowl asked, as he straightened, and turned. Jazz was aghast that he had allowed the Praxian to teek that from him, and absolutely mortified. He let his servos drop to his own knees.

 

“Are you askin’ just to please me?” Jazz replied with his own question.

 

“I do wish to please you,” the prince said, the fact he did not deny it was something of a relief, arousal slipped into his field. “I would also like to be... pleased. I would like to interface.”

 

“I’d like to please you too,” the Polihexian admitted, and it was true, he wanted desperately to give the other mech pleasure, and to know nothing had been coerced. Before Jazz could hesitate, or raise and conflict, Prowl leaned forward, servos on Jazz’s shoulders, and kissed him.

 

It was a wonderful kiss, soft and warm and open. Jazz’s servos were at Prowl’s sides instantly. The kisses were his favourite, he decided. He liked the taste of the Praxian on his glossa, and the pressure of the other mech’s lipplates against his own. This was pleasured shared, and it was perfect. Prowl’s servos curved around the back of Jazz’s neck as he leaned in harder, to kiss and to be kissed more firmly, more completely. The sovereign turned his magnets back on and ran them over the prince’s lower back and sides. Prowl helm fell back, the kiss broken, his vents spread wide as he breathed quickly.

 

“Prowl?” Jazz asked, cautious about overstepping. He felt want radiate from the Praxian’s field.

 

“I like your kisses,” Prowl said, optics wide and bright, voice husky.

 

“I like yours,” the sovereign replied, kiss the centre of the Praxian’s chevron, his jaw, his neck, before stealing another from his lips. Prowl’s servos ran ups Jazz’s helm, lightly brushing over his audial horns, and a shiver of pleasure broke over the Polihexian’s frame as his helm, neck and shoulders were almost cautiously explored.

 

He ran his own servos over Prowl’s doorwings, seeking, exploring the hidden reaches of the smooth metal plating. The Praxian moaned and held to him tighter, the sound louder than any Prowl had previously made, Jazz exalted in it for a moment before his digits slid under the prince’s back armour, and over his apterium, magnets humming along. Prowl bit him then, on the neck, a reflex as he was struck with a weak overload.

 

“I am sorry,” the Praxian spoke the apology between ragged vents.

 

“Mmm, mmm,” Jazz hummed against Prowl’s cheekplate. “Felt good.”

 

“Oh?” Prowl queried and his optics dimmed. The Polihexian leaned in and kissed his lover chevron again, lightly nibbling the sharp point. A full frame shudder announced Prowl’s focus returning to the pleasure shared between them. “That did as well.”

 

“What else do you like?” The sovereign asked, after stealing another quick kiss.

 

“Your magnets on my doorwings,” the prince replied as he pressed back against Jazz’s servos.

 

“Turn ‘round lover, ‘n ya can have all ya’d like,” Jazz promised. Prowl turned as instructed, and leaned over the edge of the bath

, exposing the great expanse of his sensory wings to the Polihexian.

 

Conscious of the trust required for the Praxian to do this, Jazz leaned over him, and kissed down the back of his neck, and is shoulders and set to work mapping every centimetre of the black and white plating under his servos. He shifted his magnets back and forth between their lowest and medium settings as he explored. Prowl shuddered and shook under his servos, groaning almost loudly as Jazz traced his magnets over every edge and flat plane. The Praxian arched his back and moaned the sovereign’s designation as overload crackled over him. Jazz pulled Prowl up to sag back against him as the ripples of overload faded.

 

He kissed the prince’s audial, and down his neck as Prowl shuddered again, and rolled his helm back against Jazz’s shoulder. The Polihexian’s engine revved as his Amica Endura squirmed on his lap. Prowl moaned as he pressed his doorwings back against Jazz’s chassis. Jazz let out another experimental rev, and his partner moaned again, as his vents worked hard to cool his frame. The oil of their bath was getting hotter as their frames overheated with the force of their shared lust. Behind his panel, Jazz’s spike was desperate to pressurize. Conscious of this, and his arousal growing with each of Prowl’s stuttering groans, Jazz stoked the panel between the Praxian’s legs.

 

“Do you...?” Jazz asked. It slid away under the sovereign’s digits, and Jazz purred in response to the heat coming off Prowl’s equipment.

 

“Yes,” Prowl’s husky voice demanded, and he rocked his hips against Jazz’s servo. The aperture of his valve quivered as the Polihexian ran his digits over the plush lining, and sank on in. Prowl arched with choked gasp, and Jazz looped his arm loosely around the Praxian’s waist, and he slid another digit into Prowl’s molten valve, plunging them in an out with gentle, yet firm strokes. At the same time, he revved his engine against his Amica Endura’s back, when Jazz activated his magnets with his digits buried deep inside Prowl overloaded again, this time with a startled cry.

 

Jazz relaxed his servo over Prowl’s chassis, giving the mech the freedom to move away if he felt overstimulated. His Amica Endura sagged back against him, and spread his legs wider apart as the sovereign added a third digit, magnets still buzzing against the sensor laden mesh, sinking slowly inside as Prowl’s valve rippled with the aftershocks of overload. Tentatively, at first, the Praxian rocked back into the digits filling him, and his ventilations were hot, uneven puffs. Prowl’s uncoordinated attempts to take Jazz deeper, even as his valve clutched at the intruding digits, made Jazz curse under his own heavy ventilations, as his core temperature skyrocket. His panel slid back, and his spike pressurized instantly, pressing insistently against the back of Prowl’s aft.

 

“More?” Jazz asked, higher processor’s struggling against the urge to rear back and take. For the love of all that is holy, do not say no.

 

“Now,” Prowl gasped. His frame shook with need.

 

“Thank Primus,” the sovereign groaned with the anticipation of relief. He guided Prowl forwards so his chassis was now too over the edge of the bath, and knelt there, arms bent at the elbows, chassis scrapping against the smooth tiled floor. Leaning over the Praxian’s back, Jazz returned his digits to Prowl’s valve. After few deep strokes, the Polihexian pulled his digits from Prowl’s heat, as his spike nudge his Amica’s, his lover’s clenching valve, Jazz gripped the prince’s hips and speared the mech with one slow, gentle slide.

 

“Oh,” the Praxian gasped, spreading his legs still farther apart as Jazz bottomed out, aft to array. Prowl dug his digit tips into the tile as he pressed his aft back against Jazz. The Praxian’s doorwings fluttered on his back, brushing the sovereign’s arms as they did. “Please.

 

As close to overload as he was, and as slick and open as Prowl was, Jazz a quick, steady pace, drawing out completely before he plunged back into, nudging the cervical node deep within the prince’s valve with each thrust. Prowl’s valve gripped his spike like a nut and a bolt, and the Praxian rocked back, with unsteady twists of his hips, to meet the Polihexian’s every upwards thrust. In only a few strokes, Prowl was overloading again, with Jazz designation on his lipplates. Jazz sped up his thrusts, spiking Prowl through the contractions of his valve, ensuring the overload did not end.

 

All but tasting his own overload, Jazz covered Prowl’s servos, with his own as he pressed his chassis flush with the Praxian’s back. His thrusts were erratic, sharp gabs now, as his hips rocked hard against Prowl’s aft. The prince shook and shuddered as the electric currents of overload continue to dance across his frame. Jazz was close, so close, and grit his denta, as his engine roared. Under him Prowl let out a short screamed as an even more powerful overload crashed through him. With a loud cry of his own, Jazz felt his overload sear his circuits, buried to the root in Prowl’s quaking frame, the Polihexian released his transfluids deep inside his lover’s frame.

 

It was almost a bream before Jazz regained enough processor power to ease his discharged spike out of Prowl’s slack valve, and back into its housing. He had not overloaded like that in a long time, perhaps even never. Seeing the Praxian still sagged against the bath’s edge, Jazz pulled him back into his arms, and on shaky legs, stepped back until he found the bench, and collapsed with Prowl in his lap. The prince curled a servo against the Polihexian’s chassis, and he raised his helm from Jazz’s shoulder. He looked debauched, and processor blown, and the sovereign felt a small spark of lust, but a greater spark of pride, and of satisfaction.

 

“That was satisfying,” Prowl said. Jazz chuckled, and kissed the side of his helm.

 

“Ya, it was,” he replied. “Thank you for sharin’ it with me.”

 

“Mhm,” the Praxian murmured, looking just as debauched, but somewhat less addled. Soberly, he said: “We ruined the bath.”

 

“Nah,” Jazz said, darkening his optics for a nanoklik. “I’ll put it on a cleanin’ cycle when we leave. Think you can stand?”

 

“I believe so,” Prowl replied, and testing his balance, stood. Jazz did the same. Though his legs felt heavy with the dark-cycle’s efforts, Jazz knew he would not fall on faceplates. Prowl appeared to have his peds, and when he moved, it was slow but with his normal economic grace.

 

“I didn’t hurt ya?” He asked,

 

“No,” Prowl said, looking over his shoulder at Jazz. “I enjoyed all of what you did. I feel thoroughly ‘faced.”

 

Jazz smiled. It was as close to imperfect language as he had heard from the other mech, and it was oddly satisfying to hear. Prowl did look thoroughly fragged, with paint transfers, and scuffs covering his aft, back, chassis and arms. He would need refinishing, unless he wanted to be a spectacle, and Jazz knew well that he did. They rinsed off the trace of oil in the solvent batch and dried. The sovereign personally dried his companion’s frame, in part to make certain there was not actual damage. Optics dim, and doorwings just slightly dipped, Prowl was worn out enough to opt out of arguing.

 

“How ‘bout you ‘charge with me?” Jazz suggested. “’N in the light-cycle I’ll redo your finish.”

 

Looking down at himself, and scuffs on his chassis and arms Prowl said: “I am amenable to that idea.”

 

End Chapter 5.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

The Praxian prince onlined slowly. He was warm, and comfortable, and content, nd it was that feeling of contentment that brought him the rest of the way online, and Prowl activated his optics. Jazz was still recharging peacefully a short distance way. It should have been odd recharging next to another mech, and yet it had been one of the more pleasant recharges in the Praxian’s recent stellar-cycles. They were not touching, but their frames were close enough that Prowl could feel the other mech’s ventilations, and it was, well it was nice. Prowl did not need to wonder why he was so feeling so at ease, those overloads had cleared his ATS of the long queue of self-defeating analyzes, and left him loose limbed, and relaxed.

 

Jazz’s visor lit up and their fields meshed. Arousal warmed Prowl and he had no idea if it was his own, or the Polihexian’s, but it hardly mattered. With the last drags of drowsiness from recharge still hanging over his processor, the prince shifted towards the sovereign at the same time as the sovereign moved towards him. Tiredness, and arousal entwined in their merged fields as Prowl carefully turned onto his back, spreading his doorwings out over the sea of pillows. He opened his arms and welcomed the weight of Jazz as he came over him. They kissed lazily, slowly as their chassis compressed. Prowl cupped the Polihexian’s helm with his servos, lightly brushing the mech’s audial horns with his digits.

 

“Good light-cycle, Jazz,” Prowl said in between kisses.

 

“Mm,” Jazz purred. “Good ‘cycle, Prowl.”

 

He felt the purr against his chassis, and tasted it when the Polihexian leaned in for another kiss, and luxuriated in it. Jazz thumbed along Prowl’s doorwings, and the Praxian let out a little moan as the firm but gentle pressure little up his sensory-net with pleasure. Heat pooled in his valve, and he felt himself lubricate. The feeling was still foreign but not unpleasant. They touched each other, slowly and sleepily, and slowly drew up their charges. Prowl’s servos smoothed down the sovereign’s back, exploring the broad slope of his back armour. Breaking the kiss, Jazz pushed himself up on his arms, pushed his back against Prowl’s servos, and pressed his mouth against the Praxian’s neck cables. Moans freely fell from Prowl’s lipplates, deepening into groans as his lover slid a servo between them.

 

Prowl slid his panel back and felt the lubricants drip from his valve, and pool beneath his aft, and he shivered at the sensation of the cool air against his intimate circuitry. Jazz ghosted digits along Prowl’s plump lining, spread the lubricants around before sliding a digit in, testing. The prince opened his legs a little wider, and sighed happily at the gentle penetration. His helm drooped to the side, resting against Jazz’s as the Polihexian kissed and sucked the structures of his neck. A second digit joined the first, and a third, always gently, always slowly and Prowl took them easily as his valve remained stretched and malleable from the dark-cycle’s vigorous interface.

 

“Ohh, mmm,” Prowl moaned appreciatively. “Jazz, you will not hurt me.”

 

“Patience, Prowler, gonna take care of ya,” Jazz replied with a hint of amusement. “Ya feel so good.”

 

Despite almost certainly knowing Prowl was open and wet for him, Jazz did not rush, and he slowly sank his spike into Prowl’s valve. As the sovereign hilted himselt entirely within him, the Praxian wrapped his arms around his back and clung to his shoulders as his thighs gripped the Jazz’s hips. They kissed as the Polihexian withdrew, leaving Prowl almost groaning at the loss, before sinking in again. With each slow twist of Jazz’s hips, the prince rocked his up, and they interfaced at a leisurely and lazy pace. Overload build gradually, and fell over them at the same time. Prowl moaned the other’s designation as Jazz spilled in him, calling his name in turn.

 

They lay there, the Praxian’s arms still loosely wrapped around Jazz’s back as the ripples of overload faded, and they dozed off. The recharge was short, and no more than a bream or so, and Jazz pushed himself upright, slipping free of Prowl’s valve with a wet sound. He did not go far, and flopped back on the berth well within reach. Though their shared mech fluids were already drying on his plating, Prowl did not find it in himself to care and he closed his panel, before sitting up against the pillows. There could be no more decadent way to start a light-cycle, and the Praxian could find no reason to feel anything but contentment.

 

“Did ya ‘charge well?” Jazz asked.

 

“Very,” Prowl replied. “The pillows helped tremendously.”

 

“Not in vogue here, but Urayans are fiends for’em,” the Polihexian said. “I wasn’t willin’ to give’em up when I came back here.”

 

“Do you consider Uraya more home than Polihex?” The prince asked.

 

“Kinda,” Jazz said. “It’s not so much Uraya as my origin. He ain’t likely to ever come back here, not for any real time. ‘N I can’t just stroll over ‘n hang out in the slum o’er there without causin’ a crisis. I spent a lotta time in Kalis too, ‘n some in Kaon after the uprisin’. More time anywhere but here. ‘M Polihexian in frame but I guess my spark’s more complicated.”

 

“What makes you below your originator will not come to your court?” Prowl asked.

 

“We lived here, until I was a second tier sparkling,” the sovereign explained. “Someone tried to poison me. Origin says it was one o’ Raisonne’s servants. The mech was executed, ‘n never admitted it was Raisonne who’d paid’m. My origin... kinda lost it. Took me to Uraya ‘n went to ground. Any time he thought someone was watchin’ us, we moved. He’s never stopped seein’ enemies at every corner here. His processor sees conspiracies everywhere, it ain’t gonna change, just how his processor is.”

 

“I am sorry,” the Praxian said. “You miss him a great deal.”

 

“I don’t know who I can trust here,” Jazz replied. “It ain’t my council. Even Tracks is gotta be more loyal to my ‘genitor’s memory than me. Origin rubbed off on me a bit. I don’t feel like ‘m bein’ watched so much, I tell ya my platin’ was crawlin’ for a while there. Even if half o’ what he thinks is a chaos theory, I know my origin would be lookin’ out for me... just me.”

 

“I see your concerns, I am available for any council you may require,” Prowl offered. “I have no reason to love your council. Even my loyalties to Praxus could be called tainted.”

 

“Are they?” The Polihexian asked.

 

“Yes,” the prince confessed. “I wish no ill will on the citizens of the empire but I never petition for anything on my procreator’s behalf.”

 

“He’s your originator, ain’t he?” Jazz asked. “Tracks said each o’ ya have a different ‘genitor.”

 

“The Emperor would not tolerate that title,” Prowl explained. “We were to call him procreator, only procreator, never ‘creator, never originator, absolutely never origin.”

 

“Why?” The sovereign asked. “Not like everybot didn’t know he carried all of ya.”

 

“His relationship with his originator was disastrous,” the Praxian revealed. “My grand-originator carried on many affairs when my originator was a youngling and they caused the population of the court, and even his progenitor to question his legitimacy. Eventually my grand-originator died in an accident along with his lover of that time, an accident or an assassination, the rumours have never rested. In any case, my grand-progenitor took a new Consort, and attempted to create again. The rumour was that my procreator would have been disinherited the instant the new consort emerged a healthy creation. It did not happen. Both my grand-progenitor and his new consort themselves died in an explosion that destroyed half the palace. It was blamed on Kaonites, officially. It is just as likely that my procreator had a part in it.”

 

“Veneer’s more dangerous than I thought,” Jazz said. “He had ya a while after Smokescreen.”

 

“He considered Smokescreen a disappointment relatively quickly,” Prowl replied. “He does not live to please, in any way. Defiance in all but written in his code. I may have been kindled to replace my brother, however I proved to be a greater disappointment, as did Bluestreak after me. I wondered if he would create again. It is possible he has attempted it but has not been successful. It is also possible no other mech has been willing to risk his temper.”

 

“How do ya feel ‘bout creatin’?” The Polihexian asked. “Ya didn’t have a good sparklinghood... or a good role model.”

 

“I am wary,” the prince admitted. “I recognize it would improve my position based on Polihexian law. This knowledge does not reduce my ill ease.”

 

“I understand,” Jazz replied. “I don’t wanna try... I hope we get some time. When it happens, Prowl. I think you’ll be a better origin than you think.”

 

“Thank you,” Prowl said, surprised at the comfort of the compliment, and incredibly relieved that Jazz did not actively which to start trying to conceive through regular merging. They had not shared sparks, the sovereign had not suggested it, and the Praxian was relieved, he felt no where near ready to give himself over so completely. “I am somewhat relieved.”

 

“’M gonna call for some energon,” the sovereign declared. “Why don’t we clean up before it comes?”

 

The idea felt like a stroke of genius and Prowl was happy to slip into the washracks, and wipe the sticky mess from his frame. He was aching a little, he realized, inside. It was no doubt a punishment for his licentiousness, but Prowl did not find he cared. It did not feel like an injury, more like the ache after overexertion. Prowl made the immediate decision to keep this development from Jazz. The sovereign would blame himself for injuring him, and so far as the Praxian was confirmed, there was no real injury and no blame to caste, and so no reason to tell Jazz.

 

When he left the washracks, he found Jazz had changed out the blanket, and as the Polihexian took his turn in the washracks, Prowl sat on the newly made berth. The pad itself was not quite as soft as he preferred but the pillows had more than made up for any excessive firmness. Berths in Praxus were built with a cushion built into top portion of the pad, along the whole width of the berth. These loose pillows were different, almost what you would expect from Vosians, and they were luxurious. Prowl layered a few of them against the head of the berth and sat back. They certainly helped his doorswings, both in recharge and in waking.

 

“Somebot’s droppin’ off a platter in my sittin’ room,” Jazz said as he stepped from the washracks. “I’ll get it ‘n bring it in here.”

 

That was another luxury to add to an already decadent light-cycle, Prowl thought, and almost certainly done for his benefit. A part of him wanted to argue it was unnecessary, but the prince resisted the small voice. Jazz did not approve of his suffering for convenience or images sake, and so the Praxian saw no logic in suggesting they sit on one of the lounges in the sovereign’s suite’s main room, Jazz would dismiss the suggestion off hand, and how could Prowl begrudge that? The Polihexian returned in a klik, carrying a try with two goblets, and a plate with an assortments of crystals and gels. He joined the prince on the berth, and sat the tray between them. Along with the crystals and gels, were some rust sticks. Prowl looked at Jazz.

 

“Ya said ya were fond of rust sticks,” the sovereign explained.

 

“I did not expect you to commit it to memory,” Prowl replied, and he took a stick, and sampled it. The rust stick had a softer texture than those made in Praxus, and the flavour was sharper. Prowl liked it as well as those he had consumed in his homeland. As he took another bite, the Praxian thought, rather treacherously, that he might actually prefer the Polihexian recipe to that of the Praxian.

 

“No reason not to,” Jazz said. He took a stick of his own and ate it slowly before taking one of the gels. “’M betting they’re different though.”

 

“I like the recipe,” the Praxian replied. “The flavour is stronger, and the texture is different, however I find the differences enjoyable.”

 

“Glad to hear it,” the Polihexian said. “Any Praxian recipes ya missin’?”

 

“Not as of yet,” Prowl explained his reply. “I fuel more to survive than for pleasure, and I can be forgetful in regards to it. Bluestreak was endlessly supplying me with boxes of rust sticks to keep in my subspace, just in case.”

 

“He sounds like a good brother,” Jazz said.

 

“He is a naturally loving mech,” the prince replied. “Bluestreak is one of those mechanisms that can find the redeemable in any mechanism.”

 

“’N he’s in the army?” The sovereign asked, dubiously. He was not the only mech who felt dubious of the youngest Praxian prince’s place of service.

 

“It is what the Emperor selected for him,” Prowl explained. “As much to please our procreator as anything, he serves, so far his service has been more ceremonial than anything. I am grateful for as much.”

 

“I don’t doubt,” Jazz said.

 

It was indulgent to fuel on the berth. Prowl let his processor wander to Bluestreak, and to Smokescreen. His brother’s had each sent him two letters, each filled with the mundane details of their lives and the goings on of Praxus. Very recently these details would truthfully exasperated the middle brother, but now that he had no opportunity to witness these mundane events, and no opportunity to see his brothers face to face, Prowl found himself clinging to these little details. In his letters, Bluestreak spared no detail, and he wrote in length about the installation the province of Perihex where he had just arrived for training. He described the weather, the mechs he trained with, the jokes he heard and failed to accurately repeat. However Smokescreen was considerably more guarded in his letters, and while he wrote of his practice, and of the humorous antics of various courtiers he was careful not to mention Veneer, or his own questionable hobbies. With Grandfall returning to Praxus that very mega-cycle perhaps Prowl had a reason to hope. Smokescreen would at listen listen to what the retired Ambassador said, even if he did not act on the advice. Somemech had to advise his brother, teach him the finer art of governance that Veneer was never going to teach him. Grandfall was his best hope.

 

“I understand Grandfall’s leavin’ this ‘cycle,” Jazz said, and Prowl wondered if the mech good read processors or if Prowl was in less control of his field than normal, and he took the moment to adjust the power input to his ATS. He had to find a balance. The prince could not run his tactical systems so hard that they overheated, and he could not run them so hard that he was more of a drone than a mech, but he could not risk crashing, Prowl had everything to lose.

 

“Yes,” Prowl replied. Much of the contentment he had onlined with had dissipated as his ATS returned to its normal level of function. Smokescreen said that his tactical systems were fed by his fear. He was not entirely wrong.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jazz replied. “’M grateful for the time he’s spent helpin’ ya settle in, can’t blame him for wantin’ to get home to his mate, o’course.”

 

“He has been invaluable,” Prowl admitted, anxiety rising just enough that he felt its presence. “With his lessons I believe I will avoid offending your court to terribly.”

 

“Don’t matter if ya did,” the sovereign said with a flick of his servo. “Y’re Praxian, ya got different customs, ‘n as long as yer respectful, ain’t gonna be an issue, ‘n it hasn’t been. Ya’ve been perfect. ‘M just a little worried for ya. Ya don’t got a Praxian servant or gentlemechs in waitin’.”

 

“I do not believe it was ever discussed,” the prince replied. “Concubines do not have gentlemech in waiting. Beyond that, I have never kept the company of my procreator’s courtiers, or their creations. I spent my time in service to the Enforcers. Given it was common knowledge that I was the Second Son. I did not find friends amongst them, and truthfully I did not seek any of them out. My brothers were always my closest confidantes.”

 

“’M gonna hate that glyph before the orn’s out,” the sovereign grumbled and then vented a sigh. As he sighed, he placed a servo on Prowl’s leg. It took the Praxian a couple of nanokliks to recognize it as an offer of comfort. “’M bettin’ y’re missin’ yer brothers, right? There’s gotta be a festival or somethin’ comin’ up. Yer ‘creator is a prickly aft but Tracks is slick, I’ll find a reason to invite’em around in the new stellar-cycle.”

 

“Thank you,” the Praxian said, and he was struck briefly dumb at how grateful he was to ever hear the offer.

 

“I’ll talk to Tracks later in the ‘cycle,” Jazz promised. “’M proud of ya, by the way. Meant to say so yester-cycle. Can’t imagine waitin’ a millenium for justice for a creation or friend.”

 

“I only read the evidence,” Prowl replied, though he demurred the compliment was deeply appreciated. “The Praefectus Vigilum had built a strong circumstantial case throughout his investigation. I only provided some clarification, and new science. With access to the science, and the appropriate equipment, metaforensic investigators would have discovered what I did. They would not have discovered it as quickly, as they do not possession my ATS.”

 

“Yer tactical set up?” The sovereign asked.

 

“Advanced Tactical Systems,” the Praxian said. “A highly unique system made up the logic computer I emerged with, a highly specialized battle computer, and a rudimentary simulator. The battle computer cannot be reproduced as the inventor was forced to undergo mnemosurgery after installing it in me. Tradition in the court of Praxus calls for all Imperial sons be given a custom modification. Mnemosurgery ensures that the inventors do not sell the designs to any other mechanism.”

 

“That sounds hideous,” Jazz grimaced. “Not necessarily battle computer, though ya said it gives ya some grief... but the mnemosurgery. Ugly, ugly slag that is.”

 

“The science has its uses but it is rarely used as I believe the inventors ever intended,” Prowl replied, speaking of mnemosurgery. A small voice within him all but begged the prince to tell the sovereign of the struggles, of the hardship the ATS put him under, but Prowl kept silent. The temptation came from emotion, it was not logical, and it was not safe. Jazz could not learn of his glitch. His crashes were not so common now; he could hide them, he was certain he could.

 

 

“I know yer not a socialite, but everymech need company sometimes.” The Polihexian said. “I’d like to spend a bit more time with ya, if yer comfortable. Spar like we talked about, I can take you around Polihex when the weather’s fair, ‘n show ya a bit of the history. We can get to know each other. Beyond that, I was thinkin’ ya might like three mega-cycles an orn with the Enforcers, the Praefectus will have ya as much as he can, but I gotta balance it with what my court expects.”

 

“I will be available for any schedule you prefer to arrange,” Prowl replied. Three mega-cycles with the Enforcers, it was not even a third of the time he had previously given to his service but he did not dare ask for more. The sovereign was right be wary of stepping too far outside the traditions for the amusement of a concubine.

 

“I’ll work it out with the Praefectus, ‘n fit the rest in ‘round my own responsibilities,” the Polihexian said. “Y’ain’t built for luxuriatin’ ‘round the palace, ‘n I know three ‘cycles ain’t much. I’d like to take ya up on the offer ya made. My councillors were my ‘genitors ‘n they feuded with him more than they cooperated, so far as I ever saw, they ain’t any better with me, probably worse ‘cause I’ve let’em get away with a lot of slag. Turbofire’s got the most influence amongst’m ‘n he lost a lot when I took the throne o’er Ric. He’s Raisonne’s brother, ya see... Ric never worked a ‘cycle in his life, ‘n he woulda been happy to spend the coffers ‘n left the work to his uncle... That ain’t gonna fly with me, not after what he ‘n his clan did to me ‘n mine... So when I need an unbiased pair o’ optics, I’d like to borrow yours.”

 

“I will help in any way I can,” the prince promised. From how Jazz spoke, the young sovereign was not fond of his half-brother, but it seemed as though he was unaware that he was Prowl’s attacker. Greyshield and Prowl’s originator had done a fine job covering up that scandal. That same voice that wished to reveal the natural of his glitch spoke up in favour of revealing the full story of his shame, and Ricochet’s part. Jazz would almost surely not have laid any blame at his peds, but the Dowager Consort had learned a little of Prowl’s glitch from his foul creation, and the Praxian did not trust the energon credits paid out by his own originator would be enough to keep Raisonne silent it Jazz pushed to prosecute his half-brother.

 

Before his fatalistic thoughts could wind any darker, or trigger a glitch, Prowl forced himself to focus on Jazz. The imbalance of their positions, and differences of their upbringings ought to have mattered more to him, while his position as concubine continued to disturbed Prowl, the unconventional upbringing of his lord did not trouble him. Jazz’s accent had grown on him, there was a certain charm to it. Prowl would never have thought himself vulnerable to charm, but the Polihexian proved the exception. Smokescreen would tease Prowl with ruthless glee if the younger brother ever voiced these thoughts. In fact, his older brother would declare that Prowl was already half-way in love with the sovereign prince of Polihex, which was ridiculous. The truth was something less fluffy. He respected Jazz, and perhaps even genuinely liked him. Certainly Prowl found his company pleasant, which was more than a small blessing considering there was no one else for the Praxian to engage in any sort of conversation. Thankfully, the Polihexian seemed to have similar feelings; he certainly seemed to respect Prowl’s processors, and if Jazz found the Praxian’s countenance unpleasant, he was a remarkably good actor. There was no doubt that he had found the Prowl’s frame pleasant.

 

The  a che between his thigh components,  had not faded much since Prowl had noticed it, though it was still not terribly distracting or worrisome. It reminded the Praxian that he had succeeded in pleasing the sovereign,  and himself. It was  something that would help his position in the Polihexian palace.  It was more than mildly galling that this was what brought Prowl the most relief, more even than the opportunity to return to Enforcer duties. His procreator would have been dearly amused.

 

It would have been best if they had not interfaced that light-cycle, not that he had noticed any discomforted before they had begun, but Prowl had wanted it, and he had initiated it as much as Jazz. The kisses had been nice, and the interface even nicer. There was no question, the prince had welcomed the weight of the Polihexian without any motivation other than pleasure, his as much as Jazz’s. This resulting ache was not unlike the helmache that resulted in the overindulgence of engex or high grade, and in this case, the experience had been worth the resulting discomfort.

 

At least the interfacing had been pleasant, really more than pleasant when his ATS had kept largely quiet, and he had been able to experience all the sensations without interference from the tactical systems that tended to dominate the Praxian’s already dysfunctional emotional cortex. As enjoyable as both the previous dark-cycle’s, and that very light-cycle’s interfaces had been, Prowl knew it would be wise for him to abstain from further interfacing until his interface components could heal, but as a concubine, even to a mech thus far as fair as Jazz, could Prowl dare refuse his advances, should he make any? It was not as though he was really damaged, his valve only ached a bit. Logically he knew that Jazz would allow him to refuse, but prince’s own fears made that seem like an impossibility. The longer he thought about it the more worrisome the ache became, not for what it was, but for what it might imply.

 

“I need to meet with my council,” Jazz explained as they finished their fuel. “They gotta be cranky that I rescheduled on’em but I think this habit they got o’ wantin’ to meet every ‘cycle’s endin’ now. I invited the Maestro ‘n his company for the dark-cycle meal. ‘M namin’ them Polihex’s official dance company after the meal. There’s gonna be a bit o’ a spectacle. I hope you’ll be up for sittin’ with me.”

 

“I would be pleased to sit at your side,” Prowl replied. “And to witness the ceremony.”

 

“Good,” the Polihexian stood as he spoke. “I don’t meet my sparklin’ sitters for a coupla joors yet, so let’s get your finish taken care of.”

 

Sparkling sitters, it was not an inaccurate description of the conduct of Jazz’s council. They would most certainly balk at the sovereign’s choice to revert to his natural speech patterns, and they would likely balk equally hard at the idea of Prowl shadowing the Enforcers. To their thinking, the Official Amica Endura’s place was in the sovereign’s berth, and no place else. The Praxian thought Jazz more than capable of withstanding their ire, especially with the inexplicably effective viceroy in agreement with him. There would be complications from this, of course. Thus far, though the sovereign had put his ped down here or there, the council had largely been cowing him into buying into their bloated sense of their own authority. As Jazz asserted his own authority over his own rule, they would push back in new ways. Depending on how much power some of those councilmechs stood to lose, and depending how much influence they each peddled in their individual clans, and amongst each other, revolt, assassination attempts, and infighting were legitimate concerns for the future. Jazz, Prowl thought, would now this, and know how to survive, and if the councilmechs though the Praxian concubine would curl up and hide in face of threat, they would be mistaken.

 

“You have vetted the guards who work closet to you, I imagine,” Prowl said, as Jazz use a shower wand loaded with a powerful solvent to dissolve this mired finish.

 

“Yep, got my origin to run’em through a real hard check,” the sovereign replied. “They’re loyal. Any guardmech more loyal to their paycheck than to me are out in the city guardin’ gates. You think I might be seein’ some trouble soon.”

 

“I believe it is highly unlikely that your council will take their loss of influence without considerable protest,” the prince revealed. “Those with the most to lose, perhaps those whose lifestyles outpace their credit chips, will be willing to go to considerable lengths to remain in power.”

 

“Raisonne’s brother, maybe,” Jazz said. “They got no standin’ armies anymore, my grand-genitor took care o’ that nonsense. But that don’t mean they ain’t dangerous. Got my spies watchin’ but ya can only get so close unless yer invisible ‘n I ain’t met a spy yet that could pull of that trick.”

 

Prowl, wisely, said nothing to that remark. There was no hint in the former spy’s field that would suggest he had any suspicion that one such spy had been strolling throughout his palace for the better part of an orn. Mirage had said not even the Crystal Emperor knew of his mod. Arcee kept her secrets, and everyone else’s. He wondered if Jazz knew of the Crystal Empire’s spymaster, if his own originator, the spymaster of Polihex had ever crossed her path, if Jazz had. It was possible, the pink femme would not necessarily have paid much attention to a spy or a pair of spies from a feral backwater such as Polihex. Prowl had ignored Mirage’s presence in his procreator’s court, and had actively encouraged his uninvited presence in Polihex but he would have to balance careful scales in the future. Polihex was his home, not so feral, although terribly foreign, and if Arcee sought to play a power game in the principality, the Praxian prince would intervene. His survival had become inextricably linked to that of Jazz, and Polihex.

 

“It sounds as though you may be looking forward to it all,” Prowl observed, processor troubled by that thought, and the tight robe he himself dangling from.

 

“I know the game,” Jazz replied. “Shadows, subderfuge, ‘n sabotage, ‘n ‘m ‘specially good at sabotage. Might as well do somethin’ ‘m good at.”

 

“I believe you have been a good sovereign thus far,” the Praxian said. He started to grimace, just slightly, hearing his own glyphs, they sounded like pandering to even his own audials, though he had meant each glyph.

 

“Any other mechanism, even Tracks ‘n I’d be wonderin’ what game they was playin’,” the sovereign chuckled, in good humour, rather than mockery. He leaned his helm on Prowl’s shoulder. “But I’ll take that as a compliment comin’ from ya.”

 

Jazz must have found Prowl’s social blundering endearing, the ATS found no other logical explanation. It was not the most comforting of conclusion, instead the Praxian felt a familiar flare of exasperation. One would have thought that a mech with his intelligence could have learned to speak properly. His originator had never phrased it even that kindly. Instead Veneer had often sneered and snarled that Prowl’s tactical systems were wasted on a mech as stupid as his second son. Prowl did not even realize his doorwings had dipped with the emotional fallout that came from unbidden memories of humiliation and hate. He only recognized that he had made that small yet deeply honest broadcast until he felt Jazz’s servo under his chin, raising it so that Prowl had not other choice but to look into the Polihexian’s visor clad optics.

 

“Why don’tcha tell ‘bout it all,” Jazz suggested. “Your ‘creator made you feel worthless, I can see that. Tell me about it.”

 

***

 

Smokescreen was coming. Prowl had not seen his elder brother in stellar-cycles, no it had been vorns. Imperial duties, and university had taken every nanoklik of Smokescreen’s time. Holidays he had promised to Prowl had been co-opted by their procreator. It had been done on purpose, of course. His Imperial procreator loathed his existence. He had never come to the manor where Prowl was forced to waste away. The servants fed him, but otherwise ignored him, except for when the young prince made an escape attempt. Prowl’s door was always meant to be locked, he was never meant to leave his suite, but the gardens called him, as did the fresh air.

 

“The Emperor does not want to Heir to see the Second Son,” his chief jailer spoke, just on the other side of the door. “Restrain the sneaky glitch.”

 

When the door opened, Prowl saw the long gold cable in the servos of one of the servants. No, that would not be happening. His wrists still stung from him having been restrained earlier in the orn after he had escaped, and hidden in the gardens for several joors. His mod, the source of his failing and shame, worked independent of his upper processor, and brought up all his previous escape attempts, both successful and futile. He did not contiously select one strategy, but Prowl did in fact pick one, and he followed it out of instinct. First he darted backwards, drawing the servants sent to tie him up like a mechanimal out of the doorway and fully into the room. Then when the servants were distracted by his backwards flight, he darted to the side, rolled between two servants, and escaped. Before the servants could follow, Prowl locked the door.

 

Freedom would not last long, the young prince knew this, all he could really hope for was a few joors. He did not need it to last however, he just need to see his brother. If it only lasted a bream, that was all Prowl would need. He needed someone to speak to him, someone to hold him. The prince followed his spark, as it guided him through the halls, out the servants entrance and into the drive of the manor. There Smokescreen, shining like a blue beacon next to the dour baron. His jailer made a sound of surprise as Prowl raced passed him, and threw himself into Smokescreen’s arms. Joy, there was so much joy as his brother held him tight that Prowl felt as though his spark would explode. Instead, his processor pinched, and he crashed.

 

Prowl woke to angry voices, no only one angry voice. Smokescreen’s voice. At first he thought his brother was angry with him, angry that he had crashed yet again, but as he squirmed, his brother held to him tighter, and bathed him in a field of love. His processor still raddled by the crash, that love almost sent him into another crash but Prowl managed to force his processor to focus on the glyphs Smokescreen was speaking, no screaming.

 

“Ky,” Prowl said, lifting his helm to look at his brother’s faceplates. “Smo... ky...ky. Chirp. Brrr.”

 

He knew there were glyphs, real glyphs not the binary he should have shed vorns ago, but though Prowl understood speech, he had not yet learned to speak it himself. The prince wanted the glyphs, knew there was power and freedom in them. Prowl had recently come to understand that he learned more glyphs, and kept them in his processor, he was spoken to with any regularity, but every time he tried to practice, to speak with the servants they rushed away, and left him in his silent Pit. This was why he had been so desperate for Smokescreen’s visit, Smokescreen would speak to him, and Prowl would learn.

 

“How is he still speaking binary?” Smokescreen snarled at Prowl’s jailer. The mech stammered, glyphlessly. Prowl felt there was some justice in this, hearing the baron lose his glyphs. Smokescreen could give Prowl glyphs, just as he had taken them from this baron.

 

“He... he...” The jailer stammered.

 

“Don’t you dare say he’s feeble-processored,” the heir hissed. “His logic processor out powers most every other mech’s in the Empire, and then there’s that fragging mod. So tell me, why is my brother still speaking binary. Where are his instructors.”

 

“The Emperor has not hired any,” the Baron replied, and he flinched at the sound from Smokescreen’s engine.

 

“And what, there aren’t any around here for you to hire?” Smokescreen demanded. “I know what allowance you are getting paid, and I know you aren’t spending it on his care.”

 

“I am only...” the jailer started to speak but an angry rev from the elder prince silenced him.

 

“Get the frag out of my sight,” the First Son ordered. “You had better have instructors for me to interview here tomorrow.”

 

“You’ll be staying?” The Baron asked.

 

“I’ll be staying until Prince Prowl’s education is on track and he can join the court,” Smokescreen replied. “I want the suite next to his prepared for me.”

 

Prowl’s jailer fled on that order, and Prowl was thrilled to see him run. The sparkling could not explain why the emotion made his helm hurt, but it did not matter. Smokescreen was here, Smokescreen was staying. His elder brother put him down, before kneeling in front of Prowl. Smokescreen stroked his helm, a sad expression on his faceplates. That expression morphed to anger as his older brother lifted Prowl’s arms, and looked at his wrists, and the deeply compressed inner cables his thin plating disguised.

 

“I’m sorry, Prowl,” Smokescreen said. “I should have come sooner. I never thought they wouldn’t be teaching you.”

 

“Ky... Chrr... ow,” Prowl tried to reassure his brother, but only binary came out.

 

“It’s okay Prowl,” his brother said, padding his back. “You’re smart, you’ll learn, I’ll help you learn. You’ll see, you’ll be talking my audial off in no time.”

 

***

 

Jazz waited for Prowl’s answer, watched as indecision warred in the largely composed faceplates. The lack of an answer, or the delay of it only worsened the conclusions the Polihexian had been forming in his processor. He had already concluded that Emperor Veneer was an abusive procreator, but the longer Prowl debated how to answer, the more certain Jazz was the Praxian ruler’s behaviour had probably been criminal, and no mech had bothered to interfere. Jazz could not designate himself the Maestro’s patron without flack from his council, but Veneer had been able to abuse Prowl without any from his? It was a vile thought.

 

“The Emperor is not fond of sparklings,” Prowl explained after more than a bream. “None were, or are permitted in his court. I was given to a baron to be reared in a remote corner of Praxus. I already displeased my procreator, I... I was slow to learn speech, and the Baron made no effort to see me educated. I was only a quartex from my teritary sparkling upgrades when I finally learned to speak after Smokescreen’s intervention.”

 

“How is that possible?” Jazz asked. “How’d it take that long?”

 

“In order for a sparkling to develop language, they need to be spoken to,” the Praxian said. “I was not. I was not permitted to interact with servants, as I was an Imperial Son, and the baron could not be bothered with me. I was adept at escaping, so spent much of my time restrained. Eventually Smokescreen learned of my situation and improved it. He hired educators, a Diffusion Master. And I learned.”

 

“The Emperor didn’t care?” The sovereign asked. “His creation was bein’ raised feral, ‘n nothin’? No consequences?”

 

“The baron was penalized for permitting Smokescreen to see me when he had forbidden precisely that,” Prowl revealed. “By then it was too late to separate me from Smokescreen, and his studies were delayed until I received my youngling upgrades. Our procreator has never forgiven my brother for that blatant act of defiance. He has never forgiven him for my presence in the court.”

 

“I think I understand why Smokescreen wanted ya there, y’re his brother and ya belonged.” Jazz said. “But bein’ there just meant yer ‘creator good frag with yer helm. In he obviously did.”

 

“Due to the failings of my early education, I have never developed complete fluency with the Praxian language,” the prince explained, spreading his doorwings. “I know the meanings of each angle, or tilt, but performing these gestures is not automatic or natural to me. My gawky doorwings were a source of embarrassment to the Emperor, my inelegant speech was another. I learned not to speak in his presence.”

 

“Oh Prowl,” the Polihexian crooned low. “You’re speech is plenty elegant, ‘n plenty wise. Any mechanism here tries to make ya think different, I’ll have exile them to the Wastes.”

 

“That will not be necessary,” Prowl replied. The angles of his faceplates were as sharp, and as fine as ever, but there was a softness in his optics, and in the curve of his thin lipplates that the sovereign had not yet seen. He looked relieved.

 

“Sure it is,” Jazz said. “Can’t have anyone slaggin’ on a member of my house. It wouldn’t be good for my image, would it?”

 

“I suppose that is logical,” the Praxian replied. “In a warped way. I would wish that you tell me if I do or say anything out of line with your wishes.”

 

“If you do or say anythin’ terrible, I’ll let ya know in private,” the sovereign agreed. “Don’t overthink it ‘n don’t hold your glossa, ya really don’t need to.”

 

For all Prowl was brilliant, he seemed to only tie his intelligence to his Enforcer training, and his tactical abilities. It struck Jazz that on at least some level, Prowl thought himself stupid, or classless. Primus above, the mech had a thousand times the Polihexian’s class, and yet he worried about somehow embarrassing Jazz in front of the court, as if he was going to be the one doing any embarrassing. He would see, the Polihexian was certain, that the court of Polihex was not the court of his procreator, and he could be happy here, Jazz had to believe that he would.

 

“Why don’t we take care of that finish ‘o yours,” Jazz said. “Somethin’ that’ll handle some Enforcer work without showing every scuff.”

 

“I will defer to your judgment,” Prowl replied. “I have always utilized the most utilitarian finish. It would not be appropriate here. It was not appropriate in Praxus.”

 

“But ya still used it,” the Polihexian asked, curiously.

 

“I was serving the Enforcers with considerable success so no mech save for my procreator would have dared question it,” the tactician explained. “Truthfully I don’t believe he ever noticed. I avoided his direct attention near all of my adult life.”

 

“’M glad,” Jazz smiled, as warm as he could through the sadness he felt for the other mech. “’M glad ya had the Enforcers to escape to. Rains are comin’, ‘n they call for a stronger finish. Somethin’ simpler, ‘n more durable would be appropriate to anybot that thought to question. Let’s see what we can put together.”

 

In the end, Prowl shone, but not like a carved crystal, more like a raw, uncut gem. He looked rugged, and powerful, an image Jazz rather liked. Though the Praxian had been quite passive with Jazz, there were spark of pride and will starting to shine through, and the sovereign was determined to see Prowl break free completely. It would be a marvellous companion when he had shed the layers of self-doubt that his procreator had all but welded on his spark. Time, all it would take was time, something Jazz thought they had plenty of. The worst thing that could happen for Prowl would be to be recalled to Praxus, something the Polihexian knew the Emperor would never consider doing, or else Jazz would treat this as a viable threat.

 

Veneer would learn to regret handing Prowl over to Jazz, especially with no fair trade in return. The mech’s Enforcer service was going to be missed, if not immediately by the Emperor, then in time. Praxus would miss their Second Son, sooner or later, and maybe they would learn to begrudge their Emperor his callous whims. If he was held to higher standards of conduct, maybe Veneer would actually develop them. Though it was rather unlikely. As it was, the Emperor of Praxus was no real threat to Polihex. The Crystal Empire and Iacon stood between him and Jazz’s principality. Neither the Emperor in the Towers or the Avatar of Primus would allow the Praxian army to come stomping through their lands. If either Polihex or Praxus needed anything from the other, it was Praxus that needed the raw goods Polihex possessed, and Veneer would not be getting any favourable deals from Jazz. Oh no, the Sovereign Prince of Polihex was not going to reward the slagtard for humiliating Prowl.

 

“I’ll collect ya for the feast,” Jazz said. “Where should I come lookin’ for ya?”

 

“The library,” Prowl decided. “Should your councillors argue with you’re decisions, tell them no. Do not defend your position. They will come to understand that no is a complete sentence.”

 

“Thanks, Prowler,” the Polihexian smiled at the thought, there was a simplicity to the wisdom there. “I’ll see ya in the dark-cycle.”

 

For once, Jazz was in his council chambers before even Tracks could arrive. He sat in his gilded throne chair at the head of the table, and waited. He did not need to wait long as his Viceroy appeared within a bream of his own arrival. Tracks raised his brow ridges as Jazz would cocked his helm in return. There was a stack of datapads in the Urayan’s servos, and Jazz did not bother to repress his groan. Of course there would be more battles to fight that just his voice, and his Amica Endura, but as he considered Prowl’s advice, as he picked up the first datapad. Rather than an edict for Jazz to approve or disapprove, it was a note, from the Praefectus Vigilum. As he read the contents, Jazz smiled from horn to horn.

 

“Got a confession in under a bream,” Jazz said. “The Praefectus Vigilum ‘n Lord of Justice got nothin’ but praise for Prowl’s work.”

 

“It may help you with the Council,” Tracks noted. “While not one of the Council, the Lord of Justice has considerable influence.”

 

“I was thinkin’ the same thing,” the sovereign replied, subspacing the note to give to Prowl later, in chance that he did not receive of of his own. He moved on to the next datapad, concerning the trading post along the Rust Sea. The docks needed emergency repairs before the acid rains came, within the quartex, serious retrofitting would be required when the weather returned with the new stellar-cyccle. The Rust sea’s very chemical make up had begun to degrade the structures of the current dock, and repairs were well overdue, why had they not being brought to Jazz’s attention sooner?

 

“Your mood has improved,” the viceroy noted. “Servants have been talking... You were not quiet.”

 

“Nobody better be hasslin’ Prowl,” Jazz said, darkly as he rest the datapad on his knee.

 

“No, this is relatively positive gossip,” Tracks replied. “You are meant to interface with the Official Amica Endura. The Council have nothing to gripe about in that regard. I’m glad you finally went to him.”

 

“Me too,” the Polihexian agreed. “He’s settlin’ in. Gonna take time for him to trust me. What Veneer did to him woulda seen mechanisms in detention here. Abuse like that leaves a mark, ‘n Prowl’s nowhere close to bein’ rid of it.”

 

“It seems to me that Prince Prowl is better off with you than he would ever be in Praxus,” the Urayan said, so far as Jazz could tell, Tracks seemed to mean it.

 

“I agree, makes me a bit happier havin’ him here,” Jazz replied. “Knowin’ it’ll be better for’m as long as I make it so.”

 

It was not long before sovereign and viceroy were joined by the Council. The most powerful nobles in Polihex, the dukes and counts came from the oldest and most privileged families in Polihex. Each had known from the ‘cycle they had emerged that they were a step above the rest of the subjects of the Sovereign Prince of Polihex. This bred in arrogance led them to look down their olfactory ridge at their prince, who had been raised amongst the lowest drags of society. Jazz had allowed it, largely because he felt like the interloper, rather than the leader, but that was coming to an end, it had to. Polihex had been the single thing to matter most to Greyshield and Jazz had a duty to protect the principality his progenitor had trusted him with.

 

“Viceroy Tracks’ll be leadin’ the meetin’,” Jazz declared. He watched the assembled nobles flinch at his accent, watched with a friendly smile that was not reflected at all in his visor. The councillors looked amongst themselves as they glyphlessly selected their sacrificial sheepacron.

 

“Your accent, Serene Highness,” Rapier said, the red coloured noble visibly wary. “Your accent...”

 

“Will be stayin’,” the sovereign replied. “My subjects don’t want an actor playin’ prince, ‘n what am I but an actor when I strut ‘round speakin’ like you mechs?”

 

“Wise, Your Serene Highness,” Tracks praised, as if he had not been the one to suggest the idea. The nobles looked to the Urayan with a mixture of confusion and suspicion. “The population of Polihex has listed reliability as one of their highest requirements of the Sovereign Prince. Already palace servants have mentioned His Serene Highness’ regional accent. Considering there has been no insurrection as a result, I do believe they may actually like it. Any trait that differentiates His Serene Highness from Ricochet will be popular. Would you all not agree?”

 

There was a murmur of agreement from the nobles, but it was not the least bit genuine. When they had had time to gather together and construct an argument, they would no doubt raise it, but Jazz was prepared to knock down any arguments. It helped having Tracks as an ally, tentative or genuine, foreignmech or not, the viceroy knew how to manoeuvre around the council with an ease that only came from vorns practice. As the meeting went on, Jazz did allow the council to offer their opinions, experience, etc. They were not useless, and served to apprise Jazz of the needs of their individual territories. Rapier’s clanhold was along the Rust Sea, the very dock that need retrofitting was within his lands, and he did actually know best what materials, and what craftsmechs would be best for the job. He was visibly pleased to have his opinion both asked for, and differed to. That he admitted he was remiss to have failed to notice the urgency of the situation was also appreciated. Jazz did not fault any mech for being wrong, so long as they admitted the failure when they were faced with it. The meeting went on in this way until Tracks brought the Praefectus’ letter to the attention of the Council.

 

“The case in question has been barely better than cold for one thousand stellar-cycles,” Track explained. “The Lord of Justice and the Praefectus Vigilum offer their deepest thanks to the Official Amica Endura for sharing his wisdom.”

 

“It is improper for the Official Amica Endura to have a... trade!” Tempest gasped with outrage. His fellow councillors nodded their agreement.

 

“Guess we’re gonna be improper ‘cause Prince Prowl will be assistin’ the Enforcers three ‘cycles an orn startin’ next orn,” Jazz declared. As the assembled nobles started to speak as one against the decision, Jazz held up his servo. “Nope, not arguin’ this mechs. Skills as unique as my Amica Endura’s ain’t to be wasted. That young mech shoulda had justice ages ago but Polihex don’t have the science. That’s gonna change.”

 

They wanted to argue, looked still prepared to, but Jazz stared them down. He was the sovereign here, and by Primus they were going to listen to him. None amongst them was prepared to test Jazz this light-cycle, at least, and Jazz smiled as they sagged back in the chairs, looking at each other with a comical degree of horror. Jazz allowed some arguments regarding taxes, roadwork and funding to schools of science and technology, including new programs focused on metaforensics. Allowing the debates did not mean the Polihexian sovereign was bound to agree or obey, his own council did not agree on all points, and times any of them. Listening to their arguments, their points of view helped Jazz make the most educated decisions he could, and he came away from the meeting feeling more sure of his self than he had in a stellar-cycle.

 

“That went well,” Tracks said, once the council had departed. “It’s a good premise to end the stellar-cycle’s session on.”

 

“That’s what ‘m hopin’,” Jazz admitted. “I wasn’t heavy servoed?”

 

“You exercised your authority with good humour and confidence,” the Urayan replied. “It through them through the loop but about time! Your progenitor would be pleased with your progress.”

 

“Thanks, mech,” the sovereign said, with a grin. “It’s easier havin’ ya here to help.”

  
“You don’t need to worry about me leaving,” Tracks assured him. “Polihex is my home.”

 

“How, though?” Jazz asked. The Urayan’s handome red face tightened, not all that happy to have that question raised.

 

“I served Uraya’s court, but had no hope of advancing due to the fact that I am an x-frame,” the viceroy explained. “Your progenitor offered me a position as his scribe. I took it, and I have never returned to Uraya. I doubt I would be welcome back.”

 

“You moved up quick,” the Polihexian thought out loud. “Y’re hardly much older than me.”

 

“I was raised Uraya’s court,” Tracks said. “Polihex’s is not particularly different. Greyshield was always locking horns with Raisonne’s clan, and he was deeply suspicious of any noble advisers. Considering I owed my career to him, he knew I could be trusted to execute his will.”

 

“So I owe my best adviser to my ‘genitor’s paranoia,” Jazz chuckled. “Another thing to thank him for.”

 

“I don’t want to see you fail,” Tracks said, with considerable conviction. “And I don’t think you will.”

 

“Thanks,” the sovereign replied. “I don’t plan to.”

 

After a light-cycle of meetings, and diplomacy, Jazz went hunting for his Amica Endura. Just as Prowl had said, the sovereign found him in the library. As he walked up, Jazz found the Praxian putting away a processor boggling stack of datapads. A single doorwings flicked, and Prowl turned to face him, with even more datapads in his servos. Something about the sight made the Polihexian smile. Maybe it was the fact that the Praxian prince had the courtesy to return the datapads he had been using away, perhaps it was the idea that Prowl really might have read all those datapad over the course of a single mega-cycle.

 

“Let me help,” Jazz said. He grabbed a servoful of the stack, glancing at the datapads, he saw they were all focused on the history of Polihex, most centring on the history of Jazz’s own dynasty. “Grandfall’s on his way home?”

 

“Yes, he offers you his best wishes for you, and for Polihex,” Prowl replied.

 

“When his creation’s emerged, Polihex’ll send’m a gift,” the sovereign said. “He was probably the least irritating ambassador here, and he help ya.”

 

“I believe that would be well received,” the Praxian agreed.

 

“You read all these this ‘cycle?” Jazz asked.

 

“Some I have read previously,” Prowl replied. “Though they are focused on the same events in Polihex’s history, they differ on the facts.”

 

“Typical,” the Polihexian said, putting away the histories in his servos and grabbing another small pile. “Each new prince wanted to make sure history painted him in the prettiest light.”

 

“The truth is always somewhere in the middle,” the prince observed. “What history do you want painted of your progenitor?”

 

“The truth,” Jazz replied. “He feuded with Uraya, feuded with his lords, feuded with his consort. He spied on allies ‘n enemies, sent his own Amica Endura ‘n his own creation to the slums in Uraya when he found a berthwarmer he liked better. He was a letch. But he was a fair ruler, ‘n he funded arts and architecture instead o’ going to war after war like his ‘genitor before him. ‘N when the end was comin’ he put Polihex ahead of his honour.”

 

“The truth,” Prowl echoed.

 

“I don’t know why he made the deal with yer ‘creator,” the sovereign admitted. “I wish I could tell ya he had good intentions, but I don’t see it.”

 

“I cannot say I would not prefer to be in Praxus, serving my Enforcers there,” the Praxian said. He knew why Greyshield had made the deal, and a flash of bitterness rolled through Prowl’s spark with the knowledge that he did not dare share the truth. “With my brothers, and the culture that is natural to me. However, I cannot say that I do not feel relief to be so many kilometres away from my procreator. I have fortunate to have you as my sovereign.”

 

“The truth,” Jazz repeated. “I’d rather not have an Amica Endura I didn’t choose, but I don’t know if I could’ve found one quite like you, ‘n that woulda been a shame.”

 

They had both been lucky, Jazz thought, in their own ways. Prowl was free of an abusive procreator, and Jazz had ally in his court. Though they were still a little tentative around each other, they were becoming friends. Amongst the nobility, being friends with the mechanism in your berth was an oddity, and the sovereign was grateful, in this instance, to be odd. Once they had put the last of the datapads away, Jazz took Prowl by the arm, and escorted him to the Great Hall. He wondered if the Praxian felt any anxiety about attending this feast. The last one had ended with them interfacing, and Jazz had not handled it very well. There would be no need to interface this time, but that did not mean the nobles, and courtiers would not be staring at the Praxian, and whispering, hoping to witness some misstep.

 

Prowl was afraid of embarrassing Jazz, and this was probably the sort of setting he was most afraid to make some gaff. He would not, at least not one big enough to even be a blip of the sovereign’s radar. The Maestro and his principle dancers were already seated at the table when Jazz and Prowl arrived. They stood, as did the courtiers and nobles also present. In Polihexian tradition, as the sovereign walk past, his noble and common subjects prostrated themselves at his peds. Though he had dismissed this practice in private, in a larger, more public event such as the feast, it was wisest to stick to tradition. As he approached the head table, Jazz smiled with relief. Next to his chair was a new one, with a padded high back. It probably would not pass for a Praxian design, not with the Polihexian carvings and the embroidery on the cushion, but it had been built with a Praxian in processor.

 

“Thank you,” Prowl said, voice low.

 

“You’ll tell me if doesn’t work for ya?” Jazz asked, equally quietly. He saw Prowl seated in the custom chair before he took his seat next to the doorwinged mech.

 

As the meal was served, Jazz praised the guest of honour for his devotion to his function, his students, and the arts. Musicians serenaded the guests as they ate, and the Polihexian slowly relaxed. Without the spectre of ritualized interface, he felt considerably more comfortable with this feast. Servants walked around with every form of braised beast, or crystal delicacy. Just as he had during the ball, Prowl selected only crystals, florametals, and energon for his meal. Floraism was not the law of Praxus’ court but it was common, and it was considered one of the principle tenants of Diffusion. He knew Polihex’s elite, present for the feast, were whispering about the foreign prince’s decidedly foreign dining habits. They would have no way to no their sovereign was listening. Heightened hearing and vision were amongst the hallmarks of the Polihexian frametype; Jazz’s hearing was especially acute, not that the members of his court were aware of that. All the better.

 

“Ya might like this,” the Polihexian offered his Amica Endura a square made of dozens of thin crystal sheets, and crumbled ores. “I figured ya don’t protometals.”

 

“Thank you, you are correct,” Prowl replied. “I have abstained since I became a novice in Diffusion.”

 

“’M fonder of mined ores ‘n crystals, but I do eat some protometal, when it suits me,” Jazz said. “Would ya rather I avoided it around ya?”

 

“That will not be necessary,” the Praxian replied. “I accept other belief systems, not only my own.”

 

“Wisespark,” the Polihexian commended with absolute sincerity.

 

As the platters and plates were cleared, and engex poured, the Maestro and his dancers took to the floor. The feast was in their honour, but it was the Maestro’s honour to perform for his patron, or so he had said. When the band struck the first chord, the dancers began to spin in interweaving circles to the beat of deep drums. When the dance ended, the next began, and the floor opened for the elite diners to join in as a ruckus folk song began to play. Though Jazz’s council had been against the proposal to give the company royal patronage, their disapproval had been more out of principle. Dance, and music were hardly considered unsavoury hobbies, and most of the nobles and courtiers were fine dancers. There was little else Jazz liked as much as dancing to a good beat. He stood and offered his servo to the Praxian. Prowl looked up at him, marble mask firmly in place.

 

“I do not know the steps,” he said as Jazz guided him up from his chair. For all his obvious unease, the prince did not resist as he was led onto the floor.

 

“That’s fine,” Jazz replied. He took in the Praxian’s right servo in his left, and rested his free servo at the small of the other mech’s back, and smiled reassuringly as he looked into the Praxian’s grave optics. “I’ll teach ya.”

 

End Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

Dancing with Jazz was unexpectedly pleasant. The Prince Regnant was graceful, and perfectly in tune to the music. Following Jazz’s lead, turning with him, stepping with him, saved Prowl from struggling to understand the music, to understand the steps, and as they danced, the movements on the Praxian’s part became more natural, and by the end of the dance Prowl would have been forced to admit, if asked that he had enjoyed dancing with Jazz immensely. When the Maestro announced the next dance, Jazz looked at the prince with his helm lightly cocked, a glint to his optics. Prowl inclined his helm, and allowed the sovereign lead him further onto the dance floor for the Peasant’s Dance. Faster than the previous set, Jazz physically lifted Prowl off the ground as they spun around. No dance in Praxus was so intimate. Partners might touch servos, but nothing else, and even that much contact was a rarity. There was something about the energy of the dance, or perhaps it was the energy of his partner that made the Polihexian dances more enjoyable than he had ever imagined possible.

The Maestro stood the side of Prowl’s chair as Jazz escorted the Praxian back to his seat. Rather than take his seat next to Prowl, Jazz stepped away, letting his servo drag softly over the prince’s shoulder as the Polihexian went to stand with the band. Perhaps it was time for a speech? Prowl would never have described himself as a tactile mech, and yet he was discovering that a gentle touch had a powerful affect on him. He had felt a rush of security just from that gentle touch. Though the Praxian did not believe himself dependent on such touches, they had a profound affect on him. They made Prowl feel safe. Really they ought to have been scandalous to him, given his Praxian upbringing, but perhaps it was that very upbringing that had made the prince so vulnerable to them. Smokescreen, Bluestreak, and later Mirage were the only mechanisms to ever touch him in kindness before Jazz, and these three mechs meant the world to Prowl. He did not want to fall for the sovereign, did not want to give his spark on that level knowing that it could so easily not be returned. Kindness did not translate automatically into affection, and it would be harmful to read too much into Jazz’s manners. Touch to him would mean different things, he was Polihexian after all.

“His Serene Highness will be singing momentarily,” the Maestro said as Jazz spoke to the assembled musicians in a hushed whisper. “Most celebrations in Polihex involve both professionals and amateurs taking the floor to entertain each other. The late Prince danced more often than he sang.”

“I see,” Prowl replied. He watched the Polihexian sovereign, curious.

“Shiftstick was one of my students,” the old dancemaster explained. “He loved music, love performing it, but he lived to dance. He was in many ways the picture of an ideal Polihexian. He was his procreators’ only creation and his death destroyed them, though they continue to live, mere shells of the mechs they were. The Praefectus Vigilum went to their home this ‘cycle and told them he had gained a confession for Shiftstick’s murder, the lover they had always suspected. He said that you were the one that put into place the final pieces of the puzzle. You have my thanks.”

“I performed the function I was trained in,” the prince said, though he felt satisfaction knowing that his joor’s work had done what he had hoped. 

“I thank you for performing it all the same,” the Maestro replied. “It is unconventional for the Offical Amica Endura to serve a function beyond that, but you will never be a conventional Amica Endura.”

“No,” Prowl confirmed. “I can only attempt not to violate too many Polihexian standards of behaviour.”

“Don’t spend too much time worrying there,” the dancemaster said. “The Praefectus described a commanding, and confident mech, that mech will survive better in the court than the passive one I’ve observed.”

Prowl had no answer for the impertinent, and ultimately accurate observation. The band struck the first note, and Jazz sang. It was a dialect the Praxian did not speak, a variation of Primal Venacular native to Polihex. Despite not understanding the glyphs, Prowl enjoyed the rhythm of the song. In the assembly of noblemechs, guests, a responding verse sang out. There was an animation in the room that made the prince feel out of place, though not necessarily unpleasantly. He was not the only mechanism keeping quiet, some of the sovereign’s councillors were observing sombrely, though others sang with full voices. The noise, no the music did not pain him, having remembered the helmache that had resulted from the previous gathering, Prowl had adjusted his doorwings to a low degree of sensitivity. As a result, the vibrations from the singing and quartet’s playing was actually rather pleasant. When the song finished, Jazz rejoined Prowl at their table. The Maestro inclined his helm and joined his dancers as they prepared for their next set. 

“You sing well,” the Praxian said.

“Thank ya,” Jazz replied. “It’s a song o’ celebration for the harvest. Been sung at celebrations since we Polihexians were semi-nomadic tribes fightin’ over resources. Rains are comin’ soon, ‘n farmers ‘n gardeners’ll be gatherin’ the most delicate crystal crops they got ‘n store’em for the next few quartexes.”

“Praxus does not suffer from serious rains,” Prowl revealed. “I believe the coming quartexes will be educational.”

“The finish I gave ya should hold up if ya get caught in a bit ‘o a storm,” the Polihexian explained. “But mostly we stick to alt-modes outside, ‘n stay inside for the worst of it. The outdoor markets put up walls, ‘n roofs until Primarii when the rains end. Some stellar-cycles we get floods. Not as often as in Kalis though.”

“What does that Palace do in cases of flooding beyond central Polihex?” The prince asked.

“We got trained rescue bots to go collect anyone stranded,” the sovereign replied. “’N the army ‘n Enforcers’ll reinforce the dikes ‘n levies. In a bad season, villages can be destroyed, ‘n if it looks like that’s gonna happen, we’ll evacuate the threatened areas ‘n house the evacuees in public buildings here in the capital. Only been here for one season o’ Rains ‘n it weren’t a bad one. Uraya gets Rains too but most o’ Uraya is on high ground so floodin’ ain’t a real worry, so I ain’t used to thinkin’ so much ‘bout’em. ‘M hopin’ they ain’t bad this stellar-cycle.”

“Though I have no experience with natural disasters if you require any of my help at any point, I will be pleased to help,” Prowl said.

“Thank ya, Prowl,” Jazz smiled. “I got no doubt I’ll take ya up on that if we get hit bad.”

Throughout the mega-cycle the dull ache in Prowl’s valve had faded considerably. Dancing had not aggravated it, much to the Praxian’s relief. He had been hesitant to dance, for fear of not only humiliating himself but Jazz as well, but the experience had been wholly positive. Prowl ould never call himself a natural dancer but once he had forgotten the optics watching, the rights and wrongs of his movements, and had focused instead on following his partner it had actually be easy enough, and really very pleasant, and he was glad the Jazz had led him out onto the floor. Prowl thought the Polihexian was glad too, but instead of being a comfort, the Praxian’s tactical systems latched onto Jazz’s happiness in his company to being a sign of impending doom. 

He had been unable to read through that datapad. Prowl had tried, of course, for the better part of his light-cycle to study it, but he had been unable to stifle his pride enough to accumulate any data. If Jazz wanted to spend the dark-cycle with him, the Praxian was doubtful he possessed the confidence to deny him, even though the sovereign had made it unmistakably clear that this is what he would want. If he offered his mouth, Prowl did not think he would be able to pull off the act. What if he choked, or bit, or if it tasted revolting, certainly Jazz would notice, he would be upset, with himself more than with Prowl, and he did not deserve that guilt. Jazz wanted him to speak for himself, to voice his needs, but when faced with that very idea, the Praxian prince balked. The Maestro was right, Prowl had become an altogether passive mech, and he felt deeply dismayed by this, and ultimately uncertain as to how he might regain the strength of spark he had lost.

“’M told yer berthroom were rehabbed while we’ve been here,” Jazz said as the Maestro and his dancers were trumpeted out of the hall. The joor was late, and all those assembled were rising to find their berths. “Did ya wanna see what the artisans put together?”

“Yes, I would,” Prowl replied, and it was true, but he as much as he anticipated a comfortable berth, his spark was infused with dread. Still he rose, and masked the dread, as the Polihexian stood from his own chair. The prince was amazed the artisans had put a whole room of furniture together so quickly. If he could find the workshop, Prowl thought he would have to give them his personal thanks for working so quickly. Recharging with Jazz had been the best recharge he had had since leaving Praxus, the sovereign’s Urayan inspire mound of pillows had made a far more comfortable surface to recharge on, and the berthpad beneath all the soft foam was considerably softer than the one Prowl had been supplied with. Onlining next to the other mech, their droozy fields mixing before their upper processors came online was also a unique and very enjoyable experience. At some point, he hope to repeat it, just not yet.

Though it was Prowl’s instinct to walk behind Jazz, the sovereign did not allow it, and they walked to to the Praxian’s suite side by side, Jazz’s servo on the small of Prowl’s back. He found he did not mind this touch, though it ought to have felt intrusive. Praxian culture considered casual touch amoral, a sign of promiscuity. Veneer considered Bluestreak vulgar because he hugged, and cuddled friends and his brothers when he should have sat a full frame width apart from any companion. Bluestreak was hardly vulgar, he was guileless, and innocent, and Prowl knew for a fact that his younger brother still had his seals, and likely would keep them until Veneer arranged a bonding for him. The youngest of the three princes had a contributive spark, like the eldest of them, but that did not mean he would not be given in bonding as a subordinate mate, there were considerably more contributive sparks in the world than receptive and two contributive sparks could kindle, with time and occasionally medical intervention. Prowl did not like the idea of his brother being given to anyone, and he was too far away to be of any help if Veneer thought to insult his youngest creation as he had his middle. 

Prowl was the vulgar one, though Veneer would not know to what degree, and his opinion should not have even mattered. He had wanted Prowl to be vulgar, for Prowl to make himself so in order to survive Polihex. Though his procreator was not likely concerned with Prowl’s survival, if anything he would have hoped, would still be hoping that his second son would debase and shame himself and still be found unworthy, and discarded. Prowl cancelled the thought train, he was not vulgar. Interfacing with Jazz did not make him vulgar, enjoying it did not make him vulgar. It was Veneer that wanted him to feel shameful for laying in the Polihexian’s berth. But the glyphs he had written were carved into Prowl’s processor and he could not delete them. Learn to suck a spike, learn, learn... His vents sped up, for a nanoklik before the prince regained control over his intakes. Jazz looked at him, concern in his field, and on his faceplates. The Praxian shook his helm and ordered himself to relax, he was at least, partly successful.

They entered his suite, Jazz never moving his servo. Did he guess that Prowl needed comfort, even if the Praxian was not sure he wanted to open himself up be comforted? It hardly mattered. The gesture was intended to be a kindness, and that was precisely what the prince was going to take it as. Prowl ignored the uncomfortable, and flashy furniture of his central living area, and went immediately for his berthroom. What he had expected, the Praxian could not say, but what he saw was far more than he may ever have hoped. Gone was the hard, gaudy berth, in its place was a low, sleek berth in dark slate, inlaid with chips of red and gold ore that formed the glyphs that made up core tenets of Diffusion. The tall posts at each corner were carved to mimic Diffusion forms. Topped with a thick pad, a smattering of pillows, Prowl thought it put every berth in Praxus to shame. Built to match the berth, his berthside tables were edge with the same tenets as the berth, both were bare, save for a single datapad. Dread chocked Prowl as he stared at the datapad, he knew what it was, there were no other datapads loose in his suite, and seeing the expression on his faceplates, Jazz walked over to collect it, and for all he tried, the prince could not voice the glyphs to stop him.

 

***

Pushing the mechs together had nearly backfired catastrophically. Tracks could not lay the blame entirely at the councils peds, he might have been able to manipulate them into dropping their demands, he might have counselled Jazz on how to bypass them, but the Urayan had known it would take his Serene Highness eons to initiate His Highness as his Amica Endura, and Tracks had not possessed the patience to let them sidestep around each other. That had been a mistake. Jazz’s response to acquiescing had been worse that Tracks had anticipated, considerably worse. The young Polihexian could be backed into a corner and manipulated or forced to cooperating with some ease, but the fallout afterwards was too much of a price to pay again.

Tracks would have to remember to use a light touch on the sovereign, although it would ultimately be best if he kept to counselling the new Prince Regnant, rather than attempting to shift him about like a pawn, Tracks was not yet confident enough in the young Polihexian to feel comfortable with the idea. But if he did not step lightly, Jazz would catch wind to the any attempts to manipulate him, probably sooner than later, and all of the viceroy’s careful work would be for not. The sovereign of Polihex could not appear weak, or else Seizer, Sovereign Prince of Uraya would jump at the chance to conquer his fellow Torus states, and Tracks did not like his chances of surviving a Torus Kingdom with Seizer as King unscathed.

Thankfully his overstep had not exploded in his faceplates, and Jazz did not appear particularl dubious about his continued counsel. And for all it had been a mistake, and a sin that would way on his conscience for a while, the two mechs appeared to be meshing better than the Urayan had any business hoping. That they had interfaced for pleasure, and that the Praxian had stayed in Jazz’s suite where not actually the most positive of the signs Tracks had observed. Going through with presenting Prowl to the Praefectus had served to ingratiate the sovereign on his Amica Endura, seeing Prowl read an Enforcer case and then setting his councillors firmly in their place when they had gotten snippy, that had been the most positive development of the orn. Jazz was becoming confident in himself, in his role, it could only bode well for the future stability of the principality.

They had danced together too, Jazz and Prowl, and though the Praxian prince had been stiff at first, it had not been longer before they had been moving smoothly together, and Tracks thought they had both enjoyed the experience. To keep the whispers and machinations to a minimum they needed to spend time together, regular time, they needed to be seen enjoying each other’s company. Dancing together at the celebration was a stroke of genius, and the viceroy wondered if his sovereign had done so for the joy of the dance, or to make a statement, Jazz was good with his secrets, and Tracks would probably never know the answer. They had left together too, to the Praxian prince’s suites that the Urayan knew had been redecorated. Whether Jazz stayed in his Amica Endura’s suites or went to his own berth did not matter much, they had made a good show of their developing relationship, and the court would find little worth complaining about. The Counsel would find something but either Tracks or His Serene Highness would have no trouble shutting their collective traps. 

All in all the dark-cycle had been successful. The celebrations on the streets for the common mechanisms had been well received, with junior teams of dancers from the Maestro’s troop performing in the streets as all of central Polihex celebrated the Maestro’s new patronship, and the celebration within the palace had been no less well received. Turbofire and his inner circle within the Counsel had looked surly and grim but Raisonne’s brother’s show of disapproval had made him something of a laughingstock amongst the courtiers, and lesser nobles. He had known it by the end of the festivities too, and he had clapped appropriately when the Maestro and his company had been played out of the hall. With the Rains coming soon, Turbofire, and many of the counsellors and lords would be returning to their home estates. It would be a pleasant relief, one that the viceroy thought made the mess of the Rains worth all the trouble. As Tracks mulled over the mega-cycles events, and the mega-cycles to come, he returned to his own suites where he went to his berth, as he always did, alone.

***

Prowl looked as if he had been stabbed with a shock stick. Jazz followed his optics and saw the plain looking datapad. He walked to retrieve it, and when he picked it up, and turned to Prowl, the Praxian recoiled. The fact that the other mech did not speak, did nothing but stare, a look of sick dread on his normally smooth faceplates, told the sovereign that whatever was written here, he needed to see, if only to find some way soothe his Amica Endura. With a flick of his digit, the screen lit up, it was a book, Jazz realized, bookmarked to display a particular page. Rage flooded his frame as he looked at the illustrated guide, and understood. A soft sound of distress broke from Prowl’s vocalizer, and he would not meet Jazz’s optics when the Polihexian looked up.

“What is this?” Jazz asked in a low voice, and he flicked to the beginning of he book, and found a message written by Veneer, as he read the hideous glyphs, the Polihexian sank his sharp digits into the thin metal, and crushed the offending datapad. “From your procreator?”

“Yes,” Prowl confirmed, still looking away, doorwings hanging painfully low. “He’s final gift.”

“That was never a gift,” the Polihexian replied darkly, face distorted in a vicious snarl. “It was a blade meant to stab ya in the spark o’er ‘n o’er.”

“I believe that was the intent,” the prince confirmed, and he finally looked up, optics so sad and tired.

“Why in the Pit did ya keep it?” Jazz asked, tossing the pieces into his subspace. Veneer would pay, by Primus and the Guiding Hand, the sovereign would make that slagtard pay even if he had to wait decavorns.

“Because I do not know how...” Prowl visibly struggled with the glyphs. “If there is something you want, but I do not know... I do not want to fail you.”

“Primus, Prowl,” the Polihexian cursed. “You haven’t failed at anythin’, not a thing, hear me? Y’re all ya need to be for me. Pleasure is for sharin’, not for takin’ ‘n if it ain’t given freely than it’s tainted ‘n wrong.”

The Praxian did not respond. He looked at his peds, except he was not looking at them, his optics had that out of focus haze, beautiful face etched with suffering. Jazz stepped over to him, and wrapped his arms around his Amica Endura, and kissed his chevron. Prowl stirred then, and looked up at him, optics filling with distress, that followed in his field. His controls were shattered, and Jazz did the only thing he could think of and smothered the humiliation, duress, and fear he teeked with a promise to comfort, to protect, to respect. Prowl slowly melted into the hug, letting his helm rest on the Polihexian’s shoulder.

“Prowl,” Jazz purred against the Praxian’s helm. “There’s nothin’ I could ever want from ya that I wouldn’t be happy to teach, ‘n only if you were open ‘n excited to learn.”

“I find it difficult to believe,” the prince confessed, turning his helm, still on Jazz’s shoulder to look at him. His optics looked so weary and tired.

“I know,” the Polihexian said, and he nuzzled his Amica Endura’s helm as he crooned. “Try ‘n believe me, Prowler. Just try. I don’t wanna take anythin’ from ya that ya don’t freely give, I really don’t.”

Prowl did not believe him, that was clear. His spark had been so badly battered that his was dubious of even the simplest kindness. Veneer deserved death, and if Jazz did not know the mayhem such an assassination would unleash he himself would be on the next transport to Praxus. It only proved that even the smartest of mechanisms could be beaten down to the point they did not believe their own worth, because no one could truthfully call Prowl a fool. He was spark sick, and the depth of it made Jazz’s own spark ache. All the Praxian wanted to do was serve the function he had trained in, to help, and to please, and Veneer had taken that deep desire to please and twisted into his creation like a knife. A more fitting model of Unicron, Jazz did not believe there could be.

“Why don’t we lay on the berth ‘n rest for a bit?” Jazz suggested, and to ensure Prowl did not read anything into the suggestion, he said. “Just rest.”

The Praxian raised his helm, and nodded slowly before extricating himself from Jazz and sinking down onto his new berth, he through his legs onto the pad, and eased himself over to the centre of the berth, to give Jazz space, with the Polihexian slid into without hesitation. Prowl curled on his side into a ball at the centre of the berth, Jazz crooned glyphlessly, and scooted close to the prince, draping one arm around Prowl’s hips, and waited. Slowly, ever so slowly, the Praxian uncurled and tucked himself into the sovereign’s embrace, his strong black servos clutched at the Poliheian’s plating. Jazz shifted a bit to cup Prowl’s helm against his chassis, just over his spark, and hugged him tight. As the prince settled, Jazz sang. It was a sparkling lullaby his originator had sung to him. 

He sang until Prowl’s ventilations dropped and the Praxian fell into recharge. For a moment, Jazz considered slipping out of the prince’s servos and leaving him to recharge, but he almost immediately dismissed the idea. When Prowl onlined Jazz wanted him to know that he had not been abandoned, and so the Polihexian relaxed into the soft berth and let his processor work. There was not much he could do to punish Veneer for the abuse he had wreaked on Prowl, but he could hurt his credit stick. Polihex was one of Praxus’ principle trading partners for raw goods, and their trading deals had always been more to Praxus’ favour. That was ending, as of the next ‘cycle, their costs were going up. Satisfied that he could claim this small vengeance, Jazz initiated recharge.

***

When Prowl woke, he was not immediately familiar with where he was. It did not take him long, however to realize he was on his new berth, wrapped in the arms of another mech, not just another mech but Jazz. Of course, Jazz had discovered the datapad, had read it, at least the note in it, and had been enraged. He had not been enraged at Prowl, no he had been kind and sympathetic, and enraged on his behalf, and somehow that had broken the Praxian. And as he had stood, and then lain broken, Jazz had held him, sang to him, sang him to recharge. Prowl felt... weary. Not quite embarrassed, not yet relieved. Instead, despite the few joors recharge, he felt hollow and tired. Jazz stirred and the prince released his hold on the sovereign’s plating, and shifted himself back, laid his helm on one of delightful pillows, and watched the other mech’s faceplates. The Polihexian watched him back, optics hidden by that familiar visor, his arm lay loosely over Prowl’s side.

“How are ya feelin’?” Jazz asked, voice thick with the static that always followed recharge.

“Tired,” Prowl admitted. “Dull.”

“Will ya tell me why ya were readin’ that page?” The sovereign asked, gently.

“Our interfaces left me tender,” the Praxian confessed. “I did not want to turn you away if you asked, I thought I should offer something else, and I knew I could not just go in blind. I could not read it, however. I have not been able to read it, it angers me too much.”

“Prowler, all ya ever need to tell me is that yer hurtin’, or tired, or just not in the mood,” Jazz said. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need to, ‘n I don’t want to just use ya as a warm mouth or frame.”

“That is what I am,” Prowl said, grimacing when the glyphs came out without his intent. “I know this is not what you intend.”

“But it’s what everymechs been tellin’ ya,” the Polihexian sighed. “’N one way or ‘nother. ‘N it’s what your procreator wants ya to think. ‘N it just hurts.”

“Yes,” the prince offlined his optics as he replied. “You are the only mechanism here who would wish me to be something different.”

“Not the only one, I swear it, ‘n the rest can go to Pit,” Jazz declared. “You’ll teach’em Prowler, just by bein’. Yer gonna dazzle the Enforcers, ‘n my mechanisms are gonna fall in love with the prince who’d serve them, give his processor and his time to them.”

“I’ve lost my confidence,” Prowl admitted. “Not when I arrived, but before.”

“When ya were attacked, when ya locked the fragger up ‘n yer ‘creator let’m go ‘n locked ya up instead,” the sovereign said, glyphs soft and sad, and the broke down some of Prowl’s walls. “When everythin’ ya’d learned o’ justice got flipped upside down.”

“I did not believe it had damaged me,” the Praxian replied. “I may have been wrong.”

“You are one of the strongest mech I’ve ever met,” Jazz said. “Even the strongest can get knocked back, ‘n knocked down. ‘M here whenever, ‘n however ya need me.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said. “You have been unimaginably kind. Bluestreak insisted you would be.”

“Glad I didn’t let’m down,” the Polihexian smiled and he spoke. “Think ya can ‘charge some more?”

“Yes, if you do not want to stay...” the prince offered him an escape.

“’M good,” Jazz replied. “Let’s just get some rest.”

It should not have been easy to get back into recharge, but it was. Prowl felt his upper processors slowly shutting down as he curled in closer to Jazz, and offlined his optics. He would need Jazz’s help Prowl realized, to rebuild his battered confidence, but that was fine. Jazz was offering it, so freely that it was almost something out of a memory flux. True, it would benefit the Polihexian to have a lover who did not wilt when the mega-cycle proved difficult, but Prowl realized that this was not part of Jazz’s motivation at all. Though you could not call him a guileless mech as you would describe Bluestreak, he was naturally inclined to kindess and generosity. How fortunate Prowl had been to end up here, even if he did not always feel lucky, the Praxian thought as he slipped off to recharge that he really was phenomenally lucky.

When he woke a second time Prowl felt considerably more at ease. Some time in meditation, an a few joors performing Diffusion exercises would centre him completely. It had been profoundly therapeutic to air everything, everything he could to Jazz. Polihex was not a place he would have chosen for himself, and the constant sensory feedback was trying, but Prowl was finally realize that he might not only survive here but be fulfilled, be happy. He could not have claimed to be happy in Praxus, fulfilled but only very rarely happy. Veneer had been too present a damaging influence for the prince to have described himself as happy, and he had taught himself not to seek it, or to seek any emotion. It had come when he was able to spend time with his brothers, and had went when they had suffered their procreator’s abuse. It had gone when Smokescreen had spent more time defying their procreator than being a decent mech, and it went whenever ever gentle Bluestreak had gone off on some military exercise. It had come when Mirage had been present, and even then it had gone when Mirage had returned from the Crystal Empire sparkbroken and defeated. There had been more grief and frustration in Praxus than anything else. So far, Prowl had felt considerably grief and humiliation in Polihex, but he had also felt so much more hope.

“Ya awake?” Jazz asked.

“I am,” Prowl replied. “Thank you.”

“Y’re welcome,” the Polihexian said. “How do ya feel ‘bout some energon? I got meetings before the Counsel disbands for the Rains, ‘n the usual slag but how do ya feel about fuelin’ together, maybe here, this dark-cycle?”

“I would like that,” the prince agreed. “Will all your counsellors depart?”

“Yah,” Jazz replied. “Some are close ‘nough that they’ll turn up for sessions once an orn but most will stay in their clanlands until the storms are done for the stellar-cycle. Turbofire, Consort Raisonne’s brother’s one o’ the ones that’ll be stayin’ home. It’ll be nice not to have his optics diggin’ into my back all the time.”

“I may like the Rains,” Prowl said. “To a point.”

“That’s right,” the sovereign laughed. “Every season’s got its perks.

***

Jazz found Tracks in his personal suite, a joor before the Counsel meeting was set to start. An odd thing about the viceroy was that he seemed to avoid company. So far as the Polihexian knew, Tracks kept no friends in the court, and he never brought a lover to his suites. True, the Urayan spent a fair amount of his personal time outside of the Palace, so he may well have a lover or companion outside of the court, but it still struck Jazz as odd. For a mech with as much influence as the viceroy, he really did not have any kind of inner circle or hangers-on. In recent mega-cycles, Jazz had learned that Tracks did not keep a chamber attendant, and in fact had all his detailing done at a spa in the capital. Why? The question circled in the sovereign helm as he announced his presence, why?

“Your Serene Highness,” Tracks greeted as he opened the door to Jazz. “How can I help you?”

Did he usually fuel alone, Jazz wondered as he entered the viceroy’s principle living space. An empty plate and goblet sat on his table. A small stack of datapads next to the dishes told the Polihexian that Tracks had had a working fuel-break. This was something of the norm for the mech, if Jazz’s previous light-cycle visits were anything to go by. There was no faulting the viceroy’s work ethic, but the whys kept coming, and Jazz did not like how few answers he had to connect them to. What motivated him, why did he work? There must have been something he spent his credits on, beyond frame maintenance, but so far as the Polihexian knew Tracks had no personal properties, no estate. He lived in the palace, but he spent as many of his joors possible outside its walls, but also never left the capital. Could he have been hiding from Urayan agents? It was something to ask Punch.

“We got a new mine comin’ in to production in the north, don’t we?” Jazz asked.

“Yes, sperrylite, and malachite are already being mined in large amounts,” the viceroy replied.

“I wanna hit Emperor Veneer where it hurts,” the Polihexian said. “I can’t kill’m, though it’s temptin’, so I want to hit’m in his coffers. Don’t think I can stop tradin’ with him altogether without gettin’ war ‘n slag, but I can charge’m a slagton more, I think.”

“Kalis has requested greater ore imports from Polihex,” Tracks revealed. “Being a mere principality, and a historic enemy, they’ve never been allocated the grand amounts we’ve traded to the Crystal or Praxian Empires. We could raise Kalis’ allocations to what they are asking, opening more trade talks. Praxus has been heavily subsidized, it was never meant to last forever, I believe the contract expired vorns ago. You would not be braking any valid agreement by charging Veneer market rates.”

“I like it,” Jazz replied. “He ain’t gonna send a new ambassador, or the mech woulda been here already, before Grandfall left. ‘N that’s fine with me. If he does sent one, maybe just ‘cause of this, I want the mech watched. I don’t want a spy in my court. No mech’s gonna go after Prowl. Veneer’s done enough, more than enough to him. He’s mine now, so Veneer can slag off.”

“Understood,” the Urayan said. “Praxus will have their newest numbers delivered before the Rains.”

“Wicked,” the sovereign purred. “Tell me somethin’ Tracks, why don’tcha ever have company? Don’t think I’ve ever seen ya with anymech but me.:

“I don’t like mechanisms,” Tracks replied without hesitation. 

“Really?” Jazz laughed.

“Quite,” the viceroy replied. “I’ve generally found my own company vastly superior.”

“Ya know, that doesn’t surprise me,” the Polihexian said. It did not actually surprise Jazz. Track was a vain mech, with minimal patience, as the Polihexian had learned early in their working relationship. As much as the Urayan may have disliked the great unwashed masses, most mechanisms would probably have found his company off putting after a sort time. As long as he did not chase off the servants, which he had yet to do, or start a clan war, which he had also yet to do, Jazz could hardly make issues of his interpersonal skills. 

“If Praxus threatens sanctions you can open trade with Nova Cronum, or Simfur, and increase trade with the Crystal Empire,” Tracks said as they walked to the war room that Greyshield and now Jazz used for counsel sessions. “There isn’t anything of significance that we trade from them so sanctions would not actually be painful for our merchants.”

“Good to know,” Jazz replied. “Noticed ya don’t suggest I open trade talks with Uraya.”

“Prince Seizer would take any talk as a sign of weakness, and attack,” the Urayan revealed. “It’s something of a pattern of behaviour, his and his progenitor’s before him.”

“He start things with my ‘genitor?” The sovereign asked.

“They were in trade talks when His Serene Highness hired me away,” Track explained. “Your progenitor’s decision to take me back with him to Polihex was in large part to spite Prince Seizer. The Urayan army had already been massing to attack. Your progenitor was ready for them.”

“Was it a hard choice?” Jazz asked. “To leave your homeland?”

“You lived in Uraya,” the viceyroy said. “The function of your procreators is always your own, it is all but impossible to rise higher than the station you emerged to. That didn’t satisfy me. It was easy to leave, and I have never been tempted to return.”

“I’m glad to have ya, Tracks,” the Polihexian said.

“As you should be,” Tracks replied.

The Counsel had already assembled when sovereign and viceroy entered the war room. They waited, only barely long enough for Jazz to sit before launching into the various “issues” they wanted to address before returning to their clanlands. Jazz listened, on the off chance the one of these pressing issues was actually pressing and needed a decision this ‘cycle. It quickly became apparent that nothing was on the table that could not, and would not be address by various court members, or city officials. Before Jazz could start thinking the meeting was just another waste of time, the counsellors, or at least a certain set of them, launched their attack, or rather, rehashed the last one.

“The Council has been discussing matters,” Roulette announced. Of all his counsellors, Roulette was most likely to raise an objection, and then back off at the first hint of irritation from Jazz or Tracks. He was your stereotypical politician, a coward. “Given your feelings on the matter. We believe it would be wise to appoint Prince Prowl of Praxus as overseer to the Enforcers, and select a new Amica Endura.”

“Pretty sure I said he can do both just fine,” Jazz replied, coldly. “He escorted me to the feast, didn’t he? What exactly is he ‘sposed to do that he ain’t doin’?”

“He isn’t supposed to be seeking an outside function,” Turofire interjected. The young sovereign stared down his brother’s uncle. “It’s underrepresented for an Amica Endura to ask for such a thing, or for that level of influence.”

“I sought it out for him,” the young Polihexian countered. “Me, because it pleases me to see my subjects benefit from my Amica Endura’s unprecedented abilities. Polihex might be equal or greater to Praxus and the Crystal Empire in arts, ‘n equal in arms to the other Torus States, but we’re outta date when it comes to law enforcement. Prowl’s gonna change that.”

“Then utilize the prince in that position,” the older Polihexian again suggested. “If you insist on it, and utilize another mech as Official Amica Endura.”

“No,” Jazz snarled, visor glinting with a warning. “My Amica Endura pleases me just as he is. I ain’t dismissin’ him. Y’re outta line even askin’ for it. We ain’t discussin’ this agin.”

“There is the possibility that you could still selected a second Official Amica Endura,” Crest suggested as Turbofire sat back, visibly annoyed to have been spoken to in that tone. “Many of your ancestors had multiple lovers, along with their consort.”

“’N my ‘genitor had one lover at a time, ‘n how well did that work out with his consort, Lord Turbofire?” the sovereign asked, pointedly to the councilmech he had just reprimanded.”

“Poorly,” the mech replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice, though he managed to remain respectful. “You do not have a consort, however.”

“’M either gonna have an Amica Endura, or a Consort, not both, never both,” Jazz said. “I ain’t gettin’ into that slag. Didn’t do my ‘genitor or my origin much good after all.”

No one dared disagree. Punch had been spymaster before he had become Official Amica Endura, and upon Raisonne’s fit at Jazz’s emergence, he had been forced into a quasi-exile, and had even lost the position as spymaster to a mech that could actually safely enter central Polihex. Greyshield had been careless with all his lovers, and so far as Jazz knew, none had reaped many rewards after the stint had ended. Prowl would be his consort, in time. Though the sovereign was clear on his, in his processor in the least, he was not comfortable with making the leap yet, and he did not actually know the steps, beyond the obvious. If Prowl carried, he would automatically be crowned consort, but their must have been away to declare him without a bitlet. Probably?

“When will the Offical Amica Endura be submitting to an examine by Medic Fixit?” Glasnost asked. “We had considered perhaps there was a secondary reason Emperor Veneer offered him to Polihex as Official Amica Endura... if he cannot kindle...”

“Prince Prowl is healthy, ‘n unless he feels otherwise, he ain’t gotta see a medic,” Jazz said, with another snarl. “Any mechanism that tries to bully him will be headin’ to their clanlands, and NEVER coming back ‘n that’s if I don’t tear’em down to their individual components first. I hope ‘m clear.”

The assembled nobles nodded their agreement, and Jazz relaxed. They either wanted to see if Prowl was interfacing, or see if he had a block in place. Either way, they were not going near the Praxian, and if Medic Fixit suggested anything, he would be looking for a new post. If Jazz was acting like a tyrant, so be it. His Amica Endura had been humiliated enough as it was, and no one in the sovereign’s court would be giving him any more grief to process. Tracks wrapped up the meeting as the councilmech remained cowed and omplacence. This was not how the sovereign wanted to manage them but there was slag you just did not try and pull. Not one of the mechs lingered, leaving Tracks the last mech beyond Jazz to remain.

“I’m surprised they didn’t suggest that earlier,” the viceroy said. “It would never have been allowed, but I suspect their wishing they’d tried to invalidate the appointment to office the first orn.”

“We interfaced, they wouldn’t’ve had grounds if I’d let them near him, ‘n I wouldn’t’ve,” Jazz replied. “I think that’s somethin’ he wouldn’t’ve tolerated either. Though he puts up with more slag than I’d expect.”

“He’s scared,” Tracks stated with a small shrug. “And he has reason to be so he is going to agree to most courtly nonsense to keep peace.”

“’M workin’ on breakin’ that habit,” the Polihexian said. “We mighta made some progress. Veneer gave him a how to manual for courtesans ‘n wrote that he was gonna end up in a brothel if he didn’t make me happy. There’s a good reason I can’t slag him, right?”

“Destabilizing Praxus would not be wise,” the Urayan said. “It would create a power vacuum that would only tempt Vos, Tarn and Kaon.”

“Ya don’t think his brother’s ready?” Jazz asked.

“No,” Tracks replied. “The heir hasn’t learned how to be an emperor, he hasn’t learned to be an heir. Veneer isn’t much for teaching his creations anything beyond how to hate.”

“That ain’t a comfortin’ thought,” the sovereign said. 

“He’s young enough to sow more wild oats,” the viceroy replied. “He’ll come into his own. Or be nudged into position by some farsighted Praxian duke. While Emperor Veneers has never named any of the three princes progenitors, the mechs in question likely know, and at some point, Smokescreen’s progenitor will likely try ingratiating himself on the heir to improve his status when the mega-cycle comes that Smokescreen is emperor.”

“Don’t suppose you got any ideas if his ‘genitor’s a slagtard?” Jazz asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Tracks said. “Uraya never has paid Praxus any serious attention. I never heard gossip about it, beyond some wonder as to how receptive spark managed to take power in such a vast emperor. Uraya remains that set in the passed.”

“Seriously?” The Polihexian grumbled, shaking his helm with exasperation.

“In the slum you are familiar with, everyspark works,” the Urayan explained. “The rules are in some ways more restrictive when you involve the harems. All receptive sparks are treated as broadcarriers.”

“If the three principalities get together again to try ‘n vote of a king, I ain’t votin’ for Uraya,” Jazz declared.

“The three princes always vote for themselves which is why there has not been a king in millions of stellar-cycles,” Tracks said. “Making strong trade ties with Kalis could actually work well for you should a vote come up again any time soon. The prince of Kalis is not a warrior, Landfall has plenty of warriors to fight any skirmishes, his principality hardly defenceless, but the prince focuses on keeping his subjects fed. Supposedly he can actually control the flow of the energon rivers that run through his principality. Provided Polihex and Kalis remain peaceful, Landfall could potentially vote for your knowing it would be your army dealing with the brunt of Urayas, instead of his own.” 

“You play a long game, Tracks,” the Polihexian observed, with some approval. Tracks shrugged.

“I don’t like being surprised,” he said.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

In preparation for the coming storms, the palace gardeners worked tirelessly to dig up the various gardens’ most fragile crystals, to take crystal pups from those crystals too large to transplant, and finally to cover the crystal beds with thick tarps coated with a film which made them impervious to the acid rain. Prowl watched them work from the window of his sitting room that faced one of the many gardens. The crystals in his own homeland had always been left to the mercy of the weather, in a bad wind some would be blown from the helium cloud that suspended them, and shatter when they struck the ground. Overall, however Praxus’ weather was mild, and acid rain storms never lasted long enough to seriously damage the Helix Gardens or their infrastructure. A part of the Praxian was curious, and even looking forward to the coming Rains, the other feared the damage they might wreak.

 

With the gardens overrun with servants, Prowl was forced to take his mediation inside. The vibrations of the palace’s endless musical performances did not follow the prince into his own habsuite, and he relaxed a little more. He was starting to get used to the sensory feedback, and lowest vibration might even have felt good if he was in the right mood, but it was pleasant to escape all the stimulation when he had the chance. Prowl still did not have his meditation mat, or any of the small trinkets or tools he had collected over the vorns, but their absence did not stop the Diffusion Master’s ability to meditate and he sat, his back to the wall across from his berth, and one by one read the tenets carved onto his berth. Slowly his optics dimmed, and his processor turned inward. Meditation came easier this ‘cycle than it had the last time Prowl had tried. Though he had to focus on the mental acts, it was not so difficult to ignore his ATS in favour of repeating the tenets until his processor cleared.

 

He was broken, and it was galling to admit it, even in in the silence of his processor. The glitch in his helm was not the source of it, though it was certainly the motivating factor that had seen his own originating spark deprive him, torment him, loathe and conspire against him. Prowl’s pride in his abilities had always been balanced by his shame of his defect, until the balance was taken and there was only shame. Denying the hurt had not help, burying it with his battle computer certainly had not. There was no were left to run within himself, no logic in it either. Ricochet’s rape, brief or not, barely remembered or not, had stained his spark, and tarnished his self-worth. Had he not told himself from the beginning that as a Diffusion Master, and trained Enforcer he should have been able to protect himself from the assault? Just as his procreator had, Prowl had blamed himself for the assault, though he blamed his failings as an Enforcer for the rape, rather than glitch, and he had poured his whole self into gathering evidence, into building a case that was supposed to see his attacker publicly dishonoured, and punished. Instead the Enforcer prince had been dishonoured further, and punished further. Ricochet was free, and Prowl was in a gilded cage.

 

It was only logical to feel broken, to be broken, given his circumstances. But the choice was his as to whether he remained broken, and Prowl knew unequivocally that he could not, would not live like this for any longer. The pieces of his self remained, and the Praxian knew he could piece them back together. He would not be the same mech, but Prowl did not want to be. Who he had been in Praxus was not who he wanted to be in Polihex. Prowl would rebuild himself stronger, and leave the fear and self-loathing of Praxus behind as best as he could. It was already happening. Jazz had opened the door, though the mech may well not have known it. The destruction of that datapad had been freeing, the reassurance and comfort offered after its destruction perhaps that much more so. Prowl remembered, would always remember, the glyphs on the datapad but without the presence of it staring him down, the Praxian thought it was already easier to forget that he had ever believed them. The sovereign wanted him to be whatever Prowl wanted himself to be. What did he want to be? An Enforcer, yes. Official Amica Endura, even Consort, truthfully no. But a partner, a lover, actually yes.

 

If it had been any other mech, Prowl thought he would cringe at the latter idea, but Jazz had given him pleasure, relief and security, and the Praxian was just now realizing just how much he enjoyed Jazz’s company, not only the interfaces, but the company. He did not want to be in the Polihexian’s company constantly, but Prowl was coming to realize that he looked forward to fueling with Jazz, to simply being with him, and it was perhaps the oddest epiphany he had ever had. Though he had always missed Smokescreen, Bluestreak, and Mirage when they had been absent for a prolonged time, they had needed to be gone for longer than joors, longer than mega-cycles before Prowl could have claimed to notice their absence. It had been different in Praxus, of course, the Praxian prince had spent every waking moment at Enforcer Command unless all but dragged away from his work, work he had buried himself in to avoid interacting with the world at large.

 

That would never be possible in Polihex, and Prowl only regretted this a little. He had spent his whole life hiding in his work, rather than face his procreator and the Praxian court. Prowl did not want to live with that kind of latent fear again, so he would find a new balance in himself, and in his life. Polihex was home, foreign as it was, and it was not going to be enough for the Praxian to sit back and rust as the stellar-cycles passed by. Jazz would feel compelled to draw him out in any case, and in truth it sounded like a rotten fate anyways.

 

-“Hope I ain’t interruptin’ ya but a transport just came in from Praxus, looks like your stuff’s finally turned up,” Jazz said, jarring Prowl from his thoughts.

 

-“I am pleased to hear that,” the Praxian replied. “Should I come and accept them.”

 

-“I think ya should,” the sovereign confirmed. “They didn’t come alone. Come to the throne room”

 

Who might have escorted his possessions to Praxus? Not Bluestreak, though his younger brother would certainly have wanted to, he was serving a tour of duty in eastern Praxus. Smokescreen then, though Prowl did not want to let his hopes soar too high, only to have them crash to floor. Though he felt both giddy and anxious to see if it was his elder brother waiting for him, the prince did not run. He travelled the maze of hallways at his usual pace. There was no risk of getting lost, a blueprint of the palace, marked with his most frequent routes was store in his battle computer for easy access. That did not mean the journey was the quickest, his living quarters, and those of the sovereign of Polihex were well away from the throne room and most of the palace’s public spaces. Still, the distance was not so far and Prowl entered the throne room about a bream after he received Jazz’s comm. His spark really did soar as he saw his brother, in all his glossy blue and red glory standing next to an unfamiliar Praxian.

 

“Smokescreen, it is good to see you,” he said. Smokescreen met him half way into the room and caught Prowl in a crushing hug, and for once the younger brother did not feel awkward about reciprocating.

 

“It’s good to see you too,” Smokescreen replied, stepping back, servos on Prowl’s shoulders, looking him up and down with a critical optic. “You look good.”

 

“Thank you,” the younger Praxian said. “I had some assistance from His Serene Highness.”

 

Smokescreen looked over to Jazz, where he sat on an elaborately etched throne positioned on a low platform, at which the viceroy stood at the base. There was a look on his brother’s faceplates, one that almost made Prowl vent a sigh. It was a look of disdain, though well masked to most mechanisms, the younger brother was familiar with the look. His brother was often giving it to their procreator. The idea that Smokescreen might loath Jazz on sight was not surprising but it was disappointing. The fact that Prowl was in Polihex, was in the Sovereign Prince’s possession due to Veneer’s machination would have been all the reason Smokescreen would have needed to hate him as he had learned to loathe anything even remotely connected to their procreator. This was probably the habit of his elder brother that disappointed Prowl the most.

 

“Unless His Serene Highness has any objection, I brought Nightbeat here to be your attendant,” Smokescreen revealed, gesturing to the pale blue and yellow Praxian standing a few steps behind him. It was unexpected to see yellow faceplates on a Praxian frame, and they hinted to mixed ancestry but it hardly matter to Prowl. “Nightbeat is the creation of Ambassador Grandfall’s attendant. The Ambassador thought you could use a chamber attendant familiar with our frametype.”

 

“Greetings Nightbeat,” Prowl said. The colourful Praxian bowed low.

 

“Your Highness,” he replied. “It would be my honour to serve you.”

 

“I can’t think o’ a reason Prince Prowl shouldn’t have a Praxian attendant,” Jazz replied to Smokescreen. His accent sounded maybe just a little thick to Prowl’s audials. Primus let them not bait each other! Looking away from Smokescreen, to the lower ranking Praxian, Jazz said: “Welcome to Polihex. Nightbeat. Viceroy Tracks will show you to your rooms in a few breams.”

 

“Thank you, Serene Highness,” Nightbeat said.

 

Prowl did not know what to think of his new chamber attendant. The mech did not appear entirely enthusiastic about his new position, but perhaps it was only nervousness. His family had served a noble house, but serving in a Palace, serving a prince was a different thing entirely, especially in a foreign backwater. If Nightbeat proved unhappy, or bitter, Prowl would see him return to Praxus. While he appreciated both his brother’s and Grandfall’s sentiments, he did not wish service to him to be the source of another mech’s unhappiness. He really was not entirely pleased for own reasonings, either as Prowl had never kept a chamber attendant and, he really did balk at the concept. The Praxian prince did not voice his displeasure, however. An attendant would no doubt be necessary, he could not expect Jazz to detail him whenever his finish got rough. It was just another change that Prowl would have to adjust to, along with everything else. He would adapt, or he would rust, and the latter was not an option worth considering.

 

“I have a meetin’ with Lord Rapier in a few breams,” the sovereign revealed as he stood from his throne. “They aren’t their best, but maybe ya’d like to show yer brother some of the gardens, Prowl? The eastern section ain’t been covered yet.”

 

“Thank you, Jazz,” Prowl replied, using the Polihexian’s designation, rather than his title in a calculated move. “I will do just that. Nightbeat I will call you to my chambers next mega-cycle. After Viceroy Tracks show you your rooms, it would be wise for you to acclimatize to the Palace. It is easy to get lost.”

 

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Nightbeat said. “I’ll do that.”

 

“Nightbeat, follow me,” Track ordered, and he led the Praxian servant from the throne room. As he did, Jazz stepped down from the platform and walked to Prowl.

 

“I know we were gonna fuel together, but maybe ya’d like to fuel with your brother this dark-cycle?” He suggested, a servo casually brushed against the Praxian prince’s back. Prowl looked to Smokesceen as Jazz did, his brother’s faceplate was an aloof mask. “’M assumin’ ya don’t plan on hoppin’ on a transport to Praxus right this klik, Prince Smokescreen?”

 

“No, I have one scheduled for mid-cycle next mega-cycle,” Smokescreen replied, normally jovial voice cool, bordering on combative. “I hope I am not imposing.”

 

“Not at all,” the Polihexian said, not rising to Smokescreen’s bate, he drew his servo from Prowl’s back. “Guest rooms will be made up for ya. I’ll send Prowl the coordinates when I have them. Prowl, servants will bring the crates to your chambers ‘n unback’em for ya or leave them for ya, whatever ya like.”

 

“I will see to their unpacking,” Prowl replied. “Thank you.”

 

“Enjoy yer visit, Prowl, Prince Smokescreen,” Jazz said. “I’ll see ya next ‘cycle.”

 

Jazz made his escape. Before he had even left the room, Smokescreen’s mask had morphed into a scowl. Prowl did not sigh, though the temptation was there. When he had imagined his brother or brothers meeting, he had feared their might be some antagonism on Smokescreen’s part, but this level was a bit much. While Prowl was confident Jazz could soften his elder brother with time, he appreciated that Jazz was choosing to make himself scarce over the course of this visit. Prowl would not be able to enjoy his brief time with Smokescreen if he had to play intermediary.

 

“Does he always talk like that?” Smokescreen asked, still scowling but somewhat less severely.

 

“Yes,” Prowl replied. “His originator was and still is a Polihexian operative largely based in Uraya. Jazz was raised in slums throughout Cybertron.”

 

“Grandfall didn’t mention anything,” his elder brother said with a frown. “Seems like something that ought to have come up.”

 

“Up until recently, Jazz was attempting to mimic the accents of his court, he has recently chosen to speak with the speech patterns natural to him,” the younger brother explained. “Do not mock him for it, Smokescreen. Remember any insult you deal him reflects on me.”

 

“How do you figure?” Smokescreen asked, doorwings tilted up with a question.

 

“If he is a guttermech, than I am a guttermech’s berthwarmer,” Prowl said. “Our procreator would phrase it exactly as so.”

 

“You are ‘facing him then,” the heir sighed with audible frustration.

 

“Of course I am,” the younger prince replied. “I am Offical Amica Endura. I am his official lover. Grandfall did not tell you anything of this?”

 

“There were some details he obviously didn’t feel inclined to share,” Smokescreen grumbled.

 

“I will have to thank him,” Prowl said. “Smokescreen, he is kind to me, and insistent that I can deny him whenever I choose to.”

 

“Have you?” The elder Praxian asked.

 

“No,” the younger prince admitted. “But I know that I can. Why would you be surprised that I might enjoy interfacing? You are hardly celibate.”

 

“Okay, I don’t want to hear any more of this,” Smokescreen declared, and his doorwings shot up as his servos raised in surrender. “Why don’t you take me on that tour?”

 

***

 

As the adage went, if looks could kill, Jazz would be a dead mech. He released a long vent. It would be good for Prowl to have some time with his brother but frag if it was not annoying to be hated on sight like that. Of course, it should not have been as surprising as it had been. Smokescreen was open about his hatred of his procreator, and everything that connected to him, and for better or for worse Jazz was tied to Veneer thanks to that slagging contract. It was not going to matter to the empire’s heir that it had been Greyshield, not Jazz that had signed it, Jazz had still gone along with it, had he not? When he had more than a mega-cycle, the Polihexian would wear Smokescreen down, charm him until he had to at least tolerate Jazz’s existence. Hoping that the Praxian heir would come to like him felt a little bit too far fetched, even for Jazz.

 

The addition of Nightbeat to the Palace staff was not unwelcome, so there was at least that. Jazz had enjoyed taking care of Prowl, and his finish but the sovereign was not always going to be available, and who was to say that his Amica Endura would not sometimes prefer a more neutral touch to his frame care? Beyond that, having someone who shared his culture, his frametype would be good for Prowl. If he had had any particular friends in Praxus Jazz would have been tempted to invite them to his court, but the Praxian had said that he had not really had friends, so that idea was a bust. Chamber attendants were often their master’s confidants, if Nightbeat could be trusted, and if Prowl was open to it, it could only be a positive thing. Time would only tell if the Praxian attendant was what just what he appeared, for now at least, Jazz would welcome him gladly, so before the dark-cycle came, he would need to have two more Praxian style berth pads ready, and the sovereign hoped it was not too much to ask for of his artisans. He transmitted a quick work order to the workshops, and kept walked on.

 

Rapier was waiting for him when Jazz arrived at the war room. The sovereign was more nervous than he cared to be but this was the first meeting he was holding without Tracks present. He had not really intended for viceroy to be absent but getting Nightbeat set up would take some time, and Jazz did not think the meeting would last long enough for the Urayan to turn up. It felt a bit stupid, but the Polihexian sat on his “throne” at the head of the table, instead of one of the many available at the long table. At some point Jazz would be free to worry less about the image he projected to the councillors, unfortunately that ‘cycle had not come yet. Rapier sat on the chair closest to the throne, and spoke.

 

“The Rains have arrived at the Rust Sea,” Rapier revealed, sombrely. “The sea is already becoming dangerously violent. It looks like the dock is disintegrating even faster than feared too.”

 

“A new dock can be built if the old one fails,” Jazz said. “Let’s get the boats in dry dock before they get broken up on the shore ‘n hurt someone. The Palace’ll provide relief next season to anymech who loses income thanks due to delays with the new dock. We want our mechanisms safe, nothin’ else matters.”

 

“Even in the Rains my clanlands depend on the sea for nourishment,” the noblemech replied, worriedly. “If we put our boats in dry dock, we can’t fish.”

 

“If your clanlands feel a pinch, we’ll send energon ‘n crystals from the capital,” the sovereign promised. “No one’s gonna go hungry. Ain’t any reason to risk lives by sailing into a storm when we got stores ‘nough to share.”

 

“Thank you,” Rapier said, and he bowed his helm to the table. “I’ll bring word to my clanlands myself. No boats will go out on the Rust Sea until after the storms end.”

 

“Good,” Jazz replied. “Have a safe journey home, Rapier.”

 

“Thank you, Serene Highness,” the councillor effused. “On behalf of my clan, thank you.”

 

Jazz was not ready to call the old councillor an ally just because of this, but there was no way it could hurt in the long run. Rapier had to have known what needed to be done, saving the boats and abandoning the docks, and surely he would have known that the capital kept stores of raw ore and crystal, as well as energon in case of any disasters. Had he thought that Jazz would not share the stores? That’s what the stores were there for, they were not for the capital, they were all Polihexians. For a moment Jazz wondered if his ‘genitor might have starved an enemy lord’s clanhold out of spite during some crisis or another. Surely not, Greyshield had been devoted to his subjects, at the very least in his own way.

 

Not liking the path his thoughts were taking, Jazz pushed himself out of his chair, and walked out of the War Room. Despite not spending so much of his sparkling or younglinghoods here, the Polihexian knew every nook and cranny of the palace, all the false halls, and all the short cuts. It did not take him long at all to wind his way to the workshops, located in the same wing as the kitchen, though on opposite ends. The chief artisan looked up from the long table where he seemed to have been drafting some project. He was on his knees, arms out stretched a nanoklik later, and Primus above did Jazz hate that particular custom. All the other workers, carvers, painters and black smiths alike dropped to their knees as well.

 

“Rise,” Jazz ordered, trying not to let his servants teek just how uncomfortable this level of deference made him. He was Sovereign Prince, he was meant to be there better but Jazz knew he would never be able to believe this was true. “Master Dropshot, His Imperial Highness, Prince Smokescreen is stayin’ over the dark-cycle, ‘n he brought a chamber attendant for his brother. They both need berth pads before moonrise.”

 

“I’ve got a few mock ups left from when we were designing Prince Prowl’s berth,” Dropshot replied. “They should work.”

 

“Why didn’t ya use one of them for Prince Prowl,” he asked out of curiousity.

 

“Praxian berthpads have a build in cushion at the helm of the berth,” the craftsmech explained. “You mentioned, when we last spoke that, His Highness liked your pillows so I changed the final design... It is to his liking, I hope?”

 

“It is,” Jazz assured him. Prowl had said nothing of the berth, and the Polihexian had not asked. The dark-cycle had devolved when Jazz had found the datapad. “If he wants any alterations, I’ll ya know. But the Praxian style one’s outta be perfect for His Imperial Highness, ‘n the attendant. Prince Smokescreen will be stayin’ in the suite next to Prince Prowl... I’d rather my Amica not have to walk halfway cross the palace just to see his brother. Ain’t got long to visit. Viceroy Tracks will let ya know where Nightbeat’s suite will be.”

 

“I’ll see the berth pads installed myself,” Dropshot promised. “We haven’t quite finished the rest of His Highness’ furniture, but did you want to see the lounge I designed?”

 

“For sure,” the sovereign said, and he followed the craftsman over to the corner of the workshop where an artist was polishing a the lounge. It was the same dark metal as Prowl’s berth, and it was etched with a subtle filigree design, and the arms inlaid with polished ore with veins of burnt gold and rust. He ran a digit over the arm. “Beautiful work.”

 

“Thank you,” the Master Artisan replied. “The seat looks deep but once the cushions are finished it won’t be. The trick to building furniture for Praxian’s is thick memoryfoam. It molds to their backs so the doorwings get support however they sit, and they don’t have to try and balance them in some perfect slot.”

 

“Makes sense,” Jazz agreed. “At some point do ya think ya could outfit a couple of the chairs in the library with that foam. He spends a lot of time there.”

 

“It won’t be hard to cut a few squares,” Dropshot confirmed. “Should be prepare something for the Enforcer station? Prince Prowl is going to be working with them, isn’t he?”

 

“He is,” the Polihexian prince confirmed. “Thank ya for yer foresight. I don’t want him strainin’ his doors when he’s tryin’ to work.”

 

“Mechs are talking about it,” the craftsmech revealed. “Never thought I’d see an Official Amica Endura working, not after your originator. It’s... humbling to think he’d want to do work for us.”

 

“In Praxus, princes all serve their subjects in someway,” Jazz explained. “Prince Prowl served the Enforcers there, ‘n he loved the work. I thought it was a waste to just leave him sittin’ in the library twiddlin’ his digits.”

 

“I like that tradition,” Dropshot said. “I don’t think I’ll be the only one.”

 

“I like to think ya won’t be,” the sovereign agreed. “Thanks for yer work, Dropshot.”

 

“It’s been my pleasure, Your Serene Highness,” the Master Aristan replied. “The workshop hasn’t been this busy in a long time. It’s good to feel like we’re earning our keep.”

 

He had worried that he had been overworking the artisans, but apparently for nothing. Jazz believed Dropshot was enjoying the many projects. There would always be more, though not necessarily all at once. The sovereign made a mental note to keep the Master Artisan in the loop for projects in the city as well. His projenitor had not been much for art, functional or not, so much as music and dance. Jazz had not thought himself much for it either, certainly he had no knack for it, but Dropshot’s work was not ostentatious, and it was functional, and the Polihexian prince thought there were a view corners of the Palace that could use a little renovating. It was a project for later, perhaps in the next stellar-cycle.

 

His plans for the mega-cycle largely scrapped by Smokescreen’s appearance, Jazz wondered his way to his personal office, just doors down from his habsuite. There was always going to be work to do, on his own, or with Tracks or other staff. For now, the Polihexian was no interested in work, rather he was interested in reaching out to his originator. Punch moved even more now that Jazz had permanently relocated to Polihex, and the young mech could only guess where he needed to send his communicubes, but he knew that sooner or later his origin would activate the cube, and they could speak, not quite face to face but as close as they were going to get for a while yet. It was enough for now, and Jazz sat back and recorded his opening message:

 

“ _Hey Origin. Everybots runniin’ ‘round like they never seen a storm, ‘n I know they happen every stellar-cycle so I don’t know if they know somethin’ I don’t, or if they need to chill... Anyway, I got some questions, ‘bout Viceroy Tracks, ‘bout Kalis and Uraya, ‘n I... I’d just like to talk with ya... Whenever ya get this, ping me.”_

 

Jazz released a long vent. Who knew when Origin was going to get the cube. If the Polihexian was lucky, his paranoid originator would be in the old neighbourhood, near the pub that served as something of a post box for the former spymaster. But his origin could not be relied upon to be in any set place at any set time, it was one of the reasons he had survived through assassination attempts, double crosses and all the other slag that came with being a spy. That did not mean that Jazz could not resent the lack of contact, resent that he was the one that had to reach out, that it did not occur to his originator that as much time had passed since their last talk, well that was the thing about Origin, when he twisting the strings of one of his theories/delusions together it could be along time before he resurfaced.

 

“Jazz?” Tracks asked from the door. “May I join you for a bream?”

 

“Sure, ain’t gettin’ much done,” he replied. “You get Nightbeat settled?”

 

“I put him between Flak and Deluge,” the Viceroy said. “Flak happened to be finished with his guardshift and volunteered to show our newest resident around.”

 

“What do ya think ‘bout the mech?” Jazz asked. “Don’t figure he’s gonna be chatty ‘round me.”

 

“I don’t think he is especially chatty by nature,” Tracks replied. “He struck me as serious, and observant. How well he meshes with Prince Prowl will remain to be seen.”

 

“Don’t think Prowl’s gonna make much of his time,” the sovereign said. “He didn’t have an attendant ‘cause he didn’t want one, never had one in Praxus, but more optics are on him here, appearance matters more so he’ll put up with Nightbeat so long as the mech don’t fuss too much. I’d like to know what skills he’s got, other than detailin’, he’s gonna be bored as frag if that’s all he’s into.”

 

“Flak will no doubt have an answer in a few joors,” the Urayan replied. “As one of the captains of the guard, he’ll certainly ask some careful questions.”

 

“That why ya put’m there?” Jazz asked. “Keepin’ a guard close just in case.”

 

“That and the suite was available,” Tracks said. “Though there were others. I did encourage Nightbeat to take Flak up on his offer.”

 

“Good,” the Polihexian sighed, and slumped back in his chair as his digits tapped against his knee. “I know he came from Grandfall but I still gotta worry he’s on Veneer’s payroll. I want any outgoin’ comms monitor.”

 

“That would be wise,” the viceroy voiced in approval. When Jazz cocked his helm and stared him down, Tracks got flustered. “What?”

 

“Ain’t gonna call me paranoid?” Jazz asked.

 

“I’d smack you upside the helm and call you a fool,” the Urayan replied. “If I though you were acting like one. But don’t believe for an instant I wasn’t monitor when I came to Polihex. Anybot can be a spy, you don’t need me telling you that. You’ll need to give the order to Rumbler and Sprocket yourself, however. They won’t be taking my glyph for it.”

 

“Guess it’s good to know my spymasters don’t freelance,” Jazz said. “’Spose I outta talk to them. See what is to see. ‘Genitor kept his servos out of it if Uraya wasn’t involved. ‘M tryin’ to do the same, but maybe that just ain’t me.”

 

“Don’t try to fit yourself into Greyshield’s mould,” Tracks advised. “You’re a better mech than him, Jazz.”

 

“Never thought I’d hear ya speak even that ill o’ him,” the Polihexian murmured.

 

“I respected him, and I owed him,” the viceroy said, he shrugged. “I may still be paying the debt. But he was flawed, Jazz. He could have done more as sovereign prince prior to his last stellar-cycle had he not spent most of his time with feuds.”

 

“I think ya more than paid any debt ya might think ya owed,” Jazz replied. “Don’t think he coulda managed that Council without ya by the end.”

 

“I managed them the moment I arrived in Polihex,” Tracks sniffed. “They’re schemers Jazz, but amateurs compared to the mechs of the harems. In a vorn you’ll be an old servo.”

 

“Maybe,” the sovereign said. “But I’ll always have use of your experience.”

 

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” the Urayan replied, and raised his helm. “I’m sure I’ll keep giving it well after you are tired of hearing it. You handled Rapier well, from what he said himself as he left. You handled the matter of Prince Smokescreen even better. Allowing them time alone will ingratiate you on Prince Prowl, and even, to a point on his brother. You’ll have other opportunities to prove you aren’t a despot.”

 

“I ‘spose I can’t blame him, can I?” Jazz asked. “All the same it really frags me off.”

 

“You’re entitled,” Tracks agreed. “But swallow it.”

 

“Ya,” the Polihexian sighed. “Don’t got much choice otherwise.”

 

Following the impromptu meeting with Tracks, Jazz made his way to the unmarked door that led to the spymasters’ office. He had not said much to Rumbler or Sprocket, the brother spies that had taken the job from his originator when Punch went over the edge. It was hardly their fault that Jazz’s originator had become paranoid, obsessively so, and it was not their fault that their sovereign prince had demoted the former spymaster and put them in Punch’s place. For all of Jazz’s working vorns, they had been his commanders, and he had taken the assignments, sometimes separate, and sometimes together with his originator, and there had never been any issue. But now that Jazz was sovereign, now that he had the power, he did not know what to say, or what to do with Sprocket and Rumbler.

 

He had pushed off his responsibilities for too long by this point. While his progenitor had not had the expertise to directly oversee his spymasters, Jazz did have the expertise, and he had a very personal stake in the form of his originator, and he would never be settled if he did not get more involved. Though Jazz had visited the Spymasters once or twice during his time as a Polihexian operative, the reverse in his and their positions made the sovereign hesitate to raise his fist to the door. Slowly he cycled his vents. This was foolish. They had to be wondering if their jobs were on the line, giving who their predecessor was, if they were going to properly monitor, and secure Polihex’s interests, they needed to be confident that the sovereign was not a klik or two away from exiling them, or worse. After another long vent, Jazz rapped his servo against the door. It opened, soundlessly. But of course, they would not have needed to ask who was there, they would have seen via their cameras, no doubt they had been watching him stand there for the whole fragging bream.

 

“Your Serene Highness,” Rumbler said, and with his brother, dropped to his knees, and bowed his helm to the floor.

 

“Let’s not... worry about that slag,” Jazz sighed. The brother glanced and each other as they sat up on their knees, and stood. “It’s just embarrassin’.”

 

“You never were into formalities,” Sprocket observed. Of the twins, he was the physical force. The orange Polihexian was a brutally efficient fighter, and an adept sabateur. Where his twin focused on espionage, and information, Sprocket focused on neutralizing threats. He reached his servo out to Jazz, who grinned, and shook it.

 

“Still ain’t,” the monochrome Polihexian replied, releasing Sprocket’s servo to shake his brothers. “Always though ceremony got in the way of getting slag done.”

 

“It definitely does,” Rumbler agreed. “We’ve been waiting... Wondering... We’ll step down if you want to make Punch spymaster again. You don’t need to exile us, we want to do out jobs...”

 

“Ain’t interested in changin’ the status quo,” Jazz interrupted. “My origin’s in his own world, in a lot o’ ways. Ya two got at least one level processor between ya, ‘n I know ya won’t pass a job or nothin’ to origin that’s anythin’ less than legit.”

 

“Mostly we let him do his own thing,” the teal twin said, with a soft chuckle. His orange twin shrugged and grinned. The brothers knew Rumbler was had the level processor, not Sprocket. “And we always take what he drops us as serious, until we learn otherwise. He might be a bit of a conspiracy nut but Punch gets good intel, once you pick through some of the layers, but you’d know that better than us.”

 

“Ya, I do,” the sovereign confirmed. “He has good ‘cycles ‘n bad ones, some ya wouldn’t notice how... off he can be. The longer he’s Punch, the saner he is. If he transforms into Counterpunch, it sets him back again.”

 

“Unfortunately, I’m fairly sure he’s running around as Counterpunch right now,” Rumbler said. “He thinks that enemies within Polihex are, or will be looking for outside talent to see you removed. He’ll hunt out every Urayan agent before he moves on to Kalis.”

 

“Don’t suppose ya got any idea who these enemies might be?” Jazz asked.

 

“No,” Sprocket replied. “No one’s been stupid enough to say slag out loud.”

 

“Figures it wouldn’t be easy,” the monochrome mech sighed. “Keep an optic on the guard, anymech spendin’ more credits than they outta have, I want’m to get a real good once over. On that note, we got a new member o’ the staff. Praxian Ambassador sent a chamber attendant for Prince Prowl.”

 

“Did His Highness want an attendant?” Rumbler asked, curiously. “Couldn’t one have been found here?”

 

“I got the vibe no mech asked Prowl if he wanted the attendant,” Jazz replied, frowning he said: “He ain’t a fussy mech, or a fancy mech. But, so long as Nightbeat ain’t on Veneer’s payroll, he’ll be good to have around.”

 

“You want him monitored,” Sprocket said. “In case he’s a Praxian mole.”

 

“That’s what ‘m thinkin’,” the sovereign confirmed. “’M more concerned that he’s ‘sposed to spy on Prowl, less on us. I ain’t okay with that... Emperor Veneer’s pulled a lot of fraggin’ sick slag on my Amica Endura, he ain’t gonna get away with any slag now that Prowl’s here.”

 

“Nightbeat will be monitored,” the teal mech promised. “He won’t be allowed to do the Official Amica Endura any harm.”

 

“We should vet the Enforcers too, shouldn’t we?” the orange twin added, quickly. “Everymech’s talking about how Prince Prowl is going to be working with them.”

 

“Start with the Praefectus ‘n work yer way down,” Jazz ordered. “Thank ya for thinkin’ of it. I don’t wanna see’m hurt.”

 

“Not on our watch,” Sprocket said, with absolute conviction. His twin nodded his agreement. Jazz knew they would do everything in their power to keep their glyph, and that was enough.

 

Funny thing, Jazz realized as the light-cycle faded to dark, and as he left the spymasters to their work, was that he missed Prowl. He had not noticed the mech’s absent at any other joor, at any other ‘cycle but as he settled into his lounge, to take his fuel, he acutely noticed the other mech’s absence. It was not so much that Jazz thought he wanted to keep Prowl in his company at all times, but he was worried for him, wanted to see him and speak with him and assure himself that he was alright. Prowl was a master at wearing masks, and he had developed that knack in Praxus. For all Smokescreen was a psychologist, there was no way for Jazz to know if he saw through his younger brother’s masks, or if he might even encourage Prowl to wear them.

 

What damage could Smokescreen do to Prowl in a mega-cycle? His Amica Endura had only just recognized that he was traumatized, if he buried the psychological wounds again due to his brother’s influence, or for his brother’s sake, how long would it be before he faced them again, actually started to live with them, and live through them? Jazz wanted to believe the best of Smokescreen, for all the mech thought the worst of him, but he waffled. The Crown Prince was a rakehell, and a gambler, the very opposite of his younger brother. He had also saved Prowl from their procreator’s neglect, as best as a young mech could, probably. There was not point trying to form a conclusion now, when he had not even managed to share a few friendly glyphs with the Praxian. Conclusions would wait for the next time Smokescreen came to Praxus, with any luck with the youngest of the brothers in tow. Maybe young Bluestreak would be less inclined to hate Jazz on sight.

 

 

He tossed the scraps of that slagging datapad onto his table. Jazz had meant to destroy it completely, in a smelter, or acid, or something but somehow the ‘cycle had gotten away from him. Did Smokescreen know about it? There was no way, could be no way. Just looking at it had Jazz shaking with rage. Smokecreen? The brother who had defied his procreator at every turn for Prowl’s sake? There was no way he would never have allowed Veneer to give such a hideous “gift” to Prowl without raising holy Pit. Jazz had not even shown it to Tracks, had not even shared the details of what had made him want to rip Veneer’s spark from his chassis. Prowl felt humiliated enough by it, the Praxian may not have asked Jazz to keep it a secret, but that seemed to go without saying. Those intimate, and hurtful secrets Prowl had shared with him would remain in Jazz’s processor, and in his spark and they would be kept as guarded as the Polihexian’s own secrets, more so even. Nothing Jazz considered a secret about himself could be brought about to hurt him, not like that in any case.

 

Abandoning the scraps on the table, Jazz rose and went to his washracks. Activating the shower, he set the temperature to scalding. Stepping under the spray, the Polihexian felt his cables relax. It had not occurred to him how vile he had felt touching that thing, keeping that thing in his subspace, and he took his time purifying his frame and his spark of its stain. Once Smokescreen had gone, Jazz thought he would seek Prowl out, and if his frame of processor was good, and if he was inclined, take him to the training fields so they could spare. Let the guards see what sort of mech the Official Amica Endura was, the strength and speed of him. They would gossip, but that was the point. Mechanisms were going to talk about Prowl, but Jazz could manipulate what they saw, and what they said, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

 

Feeling a little less wrathful, the sovereign ended his shower and tried off leisurely. Nothing Sprocket and Rumbler had shared had been anything different that he had already heard through his own sensitive audial horns, and Tracks reports. So far most of the whispers regarding Prowl were to do with his cold, marble beauty, some more focused on his foreign manners, and as news spread that Prowl was going to be working with the Enforcers, still more of the whispers focused on that. Many if not most of what Jazz had heard so far had been positive, like the Master Artisan, and the Maestro. The idea that the sovereign’s official lover was not just going to lounge about the palace, spending the principality’s coffers was unprecedented enough that most mechanisms had no idea what to think of it. Some questioned if such a pretty prince had any business standing side by side with Enforcers, what if one of those brave officers was hurt trying to protect Prowl? That was the question Jazz hoped the spar would address. They would see Prowl was not helpless, let them see that their sovereign was not helpless, and maybe just maybe any assassins waiting in the wings would count themselves warned.

 

His progenitor had wanted Jazz to shed his knives, the tools of his previous life, but it was one instruction that the dutiful creation had quietly ignored. Jazz was never going to be comfortable trusting his life to other mech; he had spent his entire life, save for the last two stellar-cycles, watching his back, and that of his origin, and the lessons of that life would not be forgotten, and the former saboteur was not inclined to try. It had been too long since he had last practised any of the arts he had studied, and Jazz smiled at the idea of testing Prowl’s skills against his own. It would be a good ‘cycle.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

As Jazz had suggested, Prowl took Smokescreen to the gardens. Though the Helix Gardens had never been one of his older brother’s favourite spots in central Praxus, the differences between Polihex’s gardens and those of their homeland were so striking that Prowl thought even his jaded brother would be intrigued. His theory was correct and upon hearing the garden “sing” Smokescreen walked throughout them, varying the force of his ped steps to change the octave of the crystals as they rang. Before long, he was all dancing amongst the crystals. Of them, Prowl thought the Polihexians would find more in common with his brother than they would with him. There were many parts of Polihex’s culture that Smokescreen would enjoy, whenever he allowed himself to.

 

“I didn’t realize this many types of crystals could sing like that,” Smokescreen said, vents wide as he took deep intakes to cool his frame after his wild dancing. “Helix’s gardeners would have us believe only the iolite crystals used at home could make anything like music. They barely whisper compared to all of these.”

 

“Polihexians use them as instruments,” Prowl explained. “Not only planted like this but in orchestras and choirs. It is one of the most pleasing facets of the principality.”

 

“Are you settling in here?” The elder brother asked, after he looked around to make certain no servant or courtier was listening in. “You aren’t planning an escape?”

 

“Is that what you wished I would do?” the younger Praxian queried. Of course, he had such a plan in place, planning was what he was best at, but he had made it prior to arriving prior to getting to know Jazz at all, and Prowl had only ever planned to use it if his life was actually at risk. It was not. “Our procreator would ensure there was nowhere on Cybertron that I could make a pleasant life. I am happier than I expected I could be here.”

 

“I’m afraid you’ll develop Survival Identification Syndrome,” Smokescreen said. “That you have...”

 

“He is not Ricochet,” Prowl insisted, with his servos up in a placating gesture. “Were he I would be gone. I would never have allowed the transport to land in Polihex. Jazz in unorthodox in every way. As much as he does not want me here, he is carving a place for me.”

 

“You think he doesn’t want you in Polihex?” The heir frowned as he asked his question. “Why for frag’s sake stay?”

 

“He does not want an Amica Endura he did not choose, or that was forced to fill that role,” the second son clarified. “I cannot leave without my life destroyed, and he will not banish me. Jazz understands this. By his choice he is giving my function back to me. I will serve with Polihex’s Enforcers. Whatever else, Smokescreen, that is what I want.”

 

“Anything changes...” Smokescreen said.

 

“If anything changes, I run,” Prowl promised. “I will not allow myself to be hurt.”

 

He doubted Smokescreen was entirely convinced, but what else could he say? Prowl did not want to spend the whole of his brother’s short stay arguing, and he was relieved when Smokescreen let the matter drop. Wanting to sort through his belongs, and spent time with his brother, without any risk of being observed, the Praxin prince led his brother from the garden. By the nature of the Polihexian palace’s design, Prowl had little choice but to take Smokescreen on a brief tour. As he pointed out architectural traditions that would be as foreign to his elder brother as they had been to him, Prowl found himself appreciating them, paying more attention to the arches, and ceiling, every inch inlaid with coloured tiles, and his favourite of all, the towering stained glass windows. The rich, and colourful architecture was quite the opposite of the clean lines and, dark walls of his homeland. It was not as though Praxus did not possess art of all sorts, it was simply softer in colour, and considerably more restrained, when it came to buildings. Panels carved or painted with scenes from nature, dotted the walls of Veneer’s palace. Those very walls were not part of the art themselves.

 

“Everywhere you look there’s something else,” Smokescreen murmured. “It’s more... I don’t want to say garish... than I’d expected.”

 

“It was very jarring when I arrived,” Prowl admitted, and he opened the door to his suite. As promised the crates containing his worldly possessions were waiting in his sitting room.

 

“How are you not blind from all the... glitter,” his brother asked, a grimace on his faceplates. Where the palace as a whole was colourful and opulent, Prowl’s rooms really were garish. “Where do you sit, how do you sit? This is... awful.”

 

“It is tacky,” the younger brother agreed. “And it is uncomfortable. New furnishings are being made for me. Logically, I should wait to unpack until I have permanent places to put it all.”

 

“It’s not like you have that much,” Smokescreen said. “Blue’s the one that likes stuff. He gave you most of yours... Why don’t I help you go through it.”

 

“I would appreciate it,” the young prince repliecd. “I have worried he may have destroyed something meaningful to me.”

 

“If he did, he’ll suffer for it,” Smokescreen promised. Prowl vented a sigh.

 

“Do not put all your focus into spiting him,” he cautioned as he opened the first crate. “Though the Emperor is not precisely loved, he is respected. You are not. You need to focus on how you are perceived by the Praxian mechanisms.”

 

“You want me to ignore everything he has done to you, to me, to Blue?” The elder prince asked. “I can’t.”

 

“Your arguments will have more sway amongst the court if you do not have the reputation of a reprobate,” Prowl replied. “Your work in the clinic, amongst the poorest of our citizens needs to take precedence, it needs to be seen. So when he turns his sights on Blue, your voice carries some weight.”

 

“Always the voice of reason,” Smokescreen said, through his clenched denta. He sighed. “I don’t feel reasonable. I hate playing his game.”

 

“Do not play it,” the younger brother advised. “Do not play into his servo either. Surround yourself with fewer rakes, and more diligent mechanisms. Or if your rakes have redeeming skills that have been ignored, raise those up, show their worth. It will improve their lives too.”

 

“I missed your nagging,” his brother admitted. “And you’ve not even been gone a quartex. I’ll see... For Blue if nothing else.”

 

“It feels longer,” Prowl replied.

 

Despite his fears, all those little trinkets his brothers had given him over the vorns were safely pulled from the crates. The collection of datapads he had built was there too. Prowl held the singing bowl Smokescreen had given him when he had mastered Diffusion, relieved to see it and his meditation, and Diffusion tools undamaged. It was the contents of the final crate that surprised him ,though. In it was not only the small tabletop crystal garden he had so often neglected, but had somehow kept alive that through him off guard, but his Enforcer kit. Everything from the additional armour he had warn during active duty, to his weapons, and the ceremonial paints that had once been used to mark his ranks amongst the Enforcers. He looked at his shoulder rockets, and rifle with ill ease. Jazz’s guard would not be pleased to know he had these weapons. How was it they had even been allowed into the palace?”

 

“The prince ordered your crates me left undisturbed,” Smokescreen revealed. “Guess he’s not afraid of you.”

 

“I will inform him of these,” Prowl said. “If he wishes it, I could keep them in the armoury.”

 

“Keep something small in your subspace,” the elder brother ordered. The young Praxian tensed at the suggestion. “Diffusion can protect you from a lot, not everything. You need something in case he turns on you, or in case an assassin thinks you’re the easiest way to him.”

 

“I will take your suggestion into consideration,” the younger prince finally said, looking at his small arsenal in an entirely different, and considerably less palatable light. The idea of using any of them against Jazz was repugnant.

 

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” Smokescreen replied. He reached into the crate and pulled out the standard issue blaster Prowl had received when he had enlisted. It was not a weapon the Enforcer prince had ever favoured. Smokescreen pushed it into Prowl’s servos. “Keep it on you.”

 

Prowl vented, and took the weapon from his brother and put it into his subspace. Contrary to what Smokescreen would no doubt have preferred, the younger brother would tell Jazz he was carrying it. The guards had never tried to search him, but if they ever did, Prowl did not want to be caught carrying a weapon he did not have the right to have. Though Smokescreen probably weighed the two risks as equally likely, Prowl thought it was more likely, and he needed to believe it was more likely that an assassin would target him, not Jazz. When he considered the idea, the strategically processored mech concluded that it was not even an unlikely risk, but rather a very real threat. There would be parties in Polihex, within the court, that would be happy enough to see the gutter mouthed sovereign in his tomb. It was only a matter of possessing the credits, and finding the “talent” to set such a murderous plan into place.

 

“Do you know Nightbeat?” He finally asked.

 

“No,” his brother admitted, with a languid swish of his doorwings. “Even if he had gotten away from Grandfall’s estate, even my circles aren’t that generous. No, Grandfall vouched for him, seemed to think he’d like to do more than follow his procreators’ pedsteps.”

 

“What’s troubling you?” Prowl asked, catching the pause.

 

“Grandfall is my progenitor,” Smokescreen revealed, doorwings flaring dramatically. “He never said anything, same as yours and Blue’s have never said anything, fear of our darling origin... I can’t wrap my processor around it.”

 

“Grandfall is a good mech,” the young prince said, nudging his shoulder against his brothers. “Considerably better than our... originator.”

 

“He was assigned to Kaon because he didn’t ask the Emperor permission when he bonded and created,” the elder of the brothers explained. “Talk about arrogance. He wasn’t allowed to have any say in my life, he’d practically been banished to his estate, but our procreator still felt entitled to feel angry that Grandfall would make a family for himself... I wonder if he celebrated, just a little, when Grandfall lost them.”

 

“I would not doubt it,” Prowl admitted. “And it is an ugly thought.”

 

“You’re my brother,” Smokescreen said. “That what matters to him, it isn’t even that I talked him off the ledge. He said he regrets not defying the emperor, regretted no being brave enough to tell be earlier. Guess having a newling coming made him sentimental, so he tracked me down to one of my game rooms... and told me the truth... we talked. Nightbeat’s a good shot, at least on the game reserve. He’ll keep you looking presentable, but he’ll watch your back. A gift to ease my worries, and to protect you.”

 

“Don’t use him to spy on me,” the Enforcer prince pleaded. “It will not go unnoticed, and I will feel... humiliated. Praxus has spies, but Polihex’s sovereign prince was one for vorns. He will not ignore it, nor will I.”

 

Smokescreen would never make such a promise, and Prowl knew not to expect or to even hope for one. But he hoped his brother would consider his glyphs, and consider what Prowl’s wishes. He had enough optics on him as it was, and at least some space had to be sacred, and if Nightbeat was going to disclose the details of Prowl’s finish, when he had paint transfers, where they were and what they entailed, the younger prince would not suffer that breach of his privacy. Collecting the decorative scroll Bluestreak had given him several vorns before from the second crate, Prowl put it in Smokescreen’s servos, before he grabbed his singing bowl, and meditation mat, and led his elder brother to his berthroom. His spark all but stopped pulsing in his chassis as he waited for Smokescreen to react as the door opened and the berthroom’s contents were revealed. Even when Smokescreen made a surprised, and pleased sound, Prowl did not relax.

 

“Made just for you...” Smokescreen murmured as he looked over the berthroom set. “Not just for a Praxian, for you... I’m not going to like him just because he had a pretty berth made for you. But I feel less like I want to kneecap him.”

 

“High praise from you,” Prowl said, delivery of the little joke flat, as if he fully believed what he was saying to be true. Smokescreen laughed.

 

“Maybe Polihex hasn’t be all that bad for you,” the elder of them finally admitted. “You look better than you did. You sound better.”

 

“I feared the worst of Polihex and its soveriegn,” the middle brother replied, dipping his doorwings. “I had no reason not to, given the reputation of the Torus States in Praxus, and my own encounter with Ricochet. I was hopeless, Smokescreen, I am not any longer.”

 

“I’m glad,” Smokescreen said. There were tears in his optics. He put his servos on the sides of Prowl’s helm and brushed his crest against his younger brother’s. It was a distinctly Praxian gesture of affection, and Prowl’s spark fluttered with love and anxiety as he tilted his helm to return the embrace. “You were trying so hard to be strong for us, but I could see how brittle you were. I thought the best part of you had died, and I couldn’t figure out how to reach you, and what good am I if I can’t help my own brother?”

 

“I told you the attack did not harm me,” Prowl said. Belatedly he realized the wetness on his cheekplates was not from his brother’s tears, but his own. “I was wrong, Smokescreen, as you knew I was, but I wanted it to be true, even needed it to be. I am learning to accept it. It is still difficult to verbalize.”

 

“Recovery takes a lot of little steps,” his brother said, stepping back and looking at Prowl. Smokescreen raised a servo and brushed the tears from his own optics. “You’ve made huge ones.”

 

They did not feel like huge steps, but they were steps forward, and he would take pride in each centimetre. Strangely the tears, the fact that they were welling up at all, and finally spilling over did have him feeling as though he was on the brink of a crash. It was that realization that had a hiccup in his intakes, and he shuddered as the silent tears turned into wrenching sobs. Smokescreen’s arms were around him a nanoklik later, and slowly they sank to the floor. They sat there for a bream, the only sounds were Prowl’s weeping. He had spurned all attempts of comfort immediately following the assault, in fact Prowl had avoided Smokescreen quite completely, using the investigation as an excuse, but it had been an excuse. It had taken mega-cycles before his ATS had fully suppressed the Enforcer prince’s emotional response to the assault, once it had Prowl had continued to avoid Smokescreen, knowing that his elder brother would have seen through the mask, and Prowl had not wanted to be reached.

 

“None of this was your fault, Prowl,” Smokescreen said when Prowl’s tears dried up. His optics stung and his intakes hurt. “Enforcers get attack, martial artists too. It happens. It’s never the victims fault.”

 

“You realize I never counselled victims of assaults, yes Smokescreem?” Prowl sighed, not caring to lift his helm from his brother’s shoulder. “I think of everything a victim, everything I could have done, or should have done.”

 

“Hindsight,” his brother replied. “You’re a brilliant mech, and you got blindsided. You could never have known he was going to go for you. No Enforcer is going to think they are going to be targeted.”

 

“Had I not glitched, I could have fought him off,” the younger prince said, bitterly.

 

“Maybe,” Smokescreen replied. “Or maybe he would have hurt you worse in the struggle. Mechanisms without glitches crash with shocks too, you know that as well as me. Our procreator never should have blamed it on you, he never should have let Ricochet get away with it. The fact that he did doesn’t reflect on you. It reflects on him. It will come back to bite him. Sooner or later.”

 

“I feel as though he is untouchable,” Prowl grimaced as he finally sat up, his doorwings hung low on his back. “He can violate our laws, our social norms, and nothing touches him.”

 

“Sending you to Polihex was not a popular decision.” the heir revealed. “The mechanisms don’t think they got much in the trade... The families of the other victims are still quiet, but they haven’t just been paid to be silent.”

 

“No, they would have been threatened with public shame, and disgrace,” the younger brother said. “This is why you need to do better, Smokescreen. They need to trust that you will listen, when he has muted them.”

 

“I’ll try,” Smokescreen promised. “I will. Why don’t we put some more of your stuff away and then refuel?”

 

***

 

Jazz waited until Tracks confirmed the Praxian heir had gone before he sought Prowl out. His spark felt tight and uncertain, but the sovereign did not give into the temptation to just run off and hide for a ‘cycle or even a few joors. It would be too easy to say “just a little longer” and before long it would be an orn, and Prowl would feel unwanted, or unworthy. Maybe he was the former, in technicality at least, but he was not the latter, and when Jazz thought about at any length, he had to admit that he did like having Prowl around. Even shy and uncertain he was good company, and they were rubbing along well, better the Polihexian thought than he would with any of his counsellors’ creations. Besides, Jazz really did not want to avoid Prowl, he wanted to see how the mech was doing.

 

That fact did not make Jazz any less nervous. Smokescreen’s hatred of him, understandable or not had rattled him. If his older brother’s hatred rubbed off on Prowl, what were they to do? He would still be stuck in Polihex, and knowing the Praxian, he would continue to insist fulfilling the role he had been stuck with. The thought was disgusting, but Jazz set it aside. It would not come to that, for the simple fact that if Prowl showed any sign of discomfort, displeasure, or anything, the Polihexian was going to step back and give him space, perhaps only for a while, perhaps permanently. Whatever Tracks or the counsel felt, Prowl was not going to be forced to be Jazz’s Amica Endura, and he would never be banished from Polihex. Knowing full well where the Praxian prince had come from, what he had suffered at the servos of his originator, there was no way the sovereign would send him away.

 

“Prowl?” He called when he reached the prince’s door. It slid open, Prowl standing just a few steps away. Jazz smiled, he could see some small Praxian touches in the mech’s sitting room. It would look even better when Prowl could actually sit on the furniture without throwing out a joint.

 

“Good light-cycle, Jazz,” Prowl said, a slight dip in his doorwings. He looked, Jazz thought, good. With the mech’s ridiculously perfect self control, it was not all that easy to tell if he was really feeling okay. But the sovereign thought his Amica Endura was feeling settled.

 

“Did ya see yer brother off?” Jazz asked when he had been invited inside with a sweep of Prowl’s arm.

 

“I did,” the Praxian replied. “I apologize, Jazz for his behaviour.”

 

“He’s entitled to his doubts,” the sovereign said, shaking his helm. “Ya ain’t just his brother, he raised ya more’n anymech else.”

 

“You have not done anything to deserve his ire,” Prowl argued.

 

“Nah, I have,” Jazz said. “I put my glyph on that contract... ‘n I went along with that “welcome” slag. So yah, Prowl, I’ve done enough to earn it a bit o’ hate.”

 

“He knows nothing of the “welcome”,” the prince replied. “Which is how I intend for it to remain. He hates you, or at least strongly dislikes you because he ties you to our procreator. That is the only reason he needs. It is not fair. I believe he will be predisposed to dislike you, but I hope that he will allow himself to get to know you when the opportunity arises.”

 

“’M bein’ crowned first cycle of Solomnii,” Polihexian revealed. “A quartex after the mournin’ period for my ‘genitor ends. I’d like to invite yer brothers. It’ll be a big party, whole quartex long really, but the first orn’s the big deal.”

 

“I believe Bluestreak will coerce Smokescreen into comin’, if nothing else,” Prowl said. “And should our procreator raise any objections, which he likely will, Smokescreen will not doubt feel spurred to attendm if only to defy him. It would be good to see them both, for more than a mega-cycle. Thank you.”

 

“I’ll have invitation sent out this ‘cycle,”Jazz promised, and then asked. “Ya had a good visit?”

 

“Yes,” the Praxian replied. “We spoke for the first time, at real length, than we had for some time. We were not estranged, but I had shut him out.”

 

“’M thinkin’ he understood,” the sovereign said. “Think he was just glad ya let’m back in.”

 

“Yes, as am I,” Prowl confirmed. “Was your mega-cycle pleasant?”

 

“It was, in a way,” Jazz frowned as he spoke of his ‘cycle. “I spoke to my old bosses, the spymasters. Guess they’ve been sittin’ on edge since my ‘genitor died. They got the job after my origin went of the rails. ‘N I mean, we always got along good, but it’s difference for all of us now that ‘m the boss. We worked it out, they’re keepin’ the job, I never thought about brinin’ origin back in. He is not all there, ‘n ya gotta have a clear processor to run ops.”

 

“I am pleased to hear you spoke with them,” the prince said. “You are doing well, despite for reservations about your suitability for your station.”

 

“Thank ya,” the Polihexian replied. “I was thinkin’, if y’re up for it. Did ya wanna spar? Got a good trainin’ yard. Mostly for the guardmechs, but my ‘genitor used it to.”

 

“I would be pleased to spar with you,” Prowl affirmed. “There was one matter I thought I ought to bring to your attention?”

 

“Yah?” Jazz asked.

 

“Along with my other possessions, my Enforcer kit was sent over,” the Praxian explained. “Including my weapons. Smokescreen all but ordered me to keep one on my person, but I am not comfortable doing so without your assent.”

 

“I think it is a good idea,” the sovereign said. Prowl’s optics glowed almost brightly, and his doorwings rose up into an almost sharp ‘V’,. “Figured ya’d be surprise. My spies seem to think we got plots brewin’ ‘n I ain’t naive ‘nough to doubt it. Ya could be a target, just as easily as me, or even us together. So I’d rather ya had another way to protect yourself.”

 

“You are not afraid I will turn it on you?” Prowl asked.

 

“No,” Jazz replied. “Diffusion’d be quieter. Mechanism call it a softer art but it’s as lethal as any of’em with the right motivation. If ya wanted me dead, ya’d do it quiet like so ya could sneak off before anyone figured anythin’ was wrong.”

 

“Your assessment is accurate, and disturbing,” the prince said. “You have given some thought to this at some length.”

 

“Sure,” the Polihexian confirmed, with a nonchalant shrug. “’M good at readin’ mechanisms, ya don’t live long as an op if ya can’t. Fact is ya’ve never given me a reason to fear ya. Keep the... blaster ‘m guessin’?”

 

“Yes, but perhaps the rest of my weapons would be best kept in the armoury?” Prowl suggested. “I do not believe rocket launchers and a rifle would be missed by the housekeepers.”

 

“True,” Jazz agreed. “I got a section ‘n the armoury with my own kit. We can share it. And since ya been honest with me... I got blades, in hilts in my arms, always. Counsel don’t know, don’t care if Tracks suspects. Ain’t gonna trust other mechanisms to keep me alive. I got more to lose.”

 

“This is true,” the Praxian replied.

 

The fact that Prowl had a blaster on him relieved a few of Jazz’s more nagging worries. Diffusion and Circuit-Su were good defences but the threat still had to get close, and odds were that threat would be armed. A blaster would give Prowl a better range of defence. Jazz’s own knives were not the longest range, but they had been styled to throw, and he had excellent aim. There was something about the noise of a blaster that had never felt natural to the former operative, and he had always felt more comfortable with throwing knives. It was relieving also to share this secret with Prowl, and to have received no argument against it.

 

They spoke as they walked, of the palace’s preparations for the Rains, forecast to start within the orn, and of Jazz’s conversation with Rapier. The conversation came easily, naturally. Jazz pointed out the spots he would like to have the Master Artisan renovate and renew, and though he said he was not artistically minded, Prowl did have thoughts on the planned renovations, and on Jazz’s ideas. By the time they had reached the training field, they had come up with an idea for a new atrium, in what had once been the defunct harem’s enclosed garden. Between the Master Gardener, and the Master Artisan, they would have a meditation garden, with space to spar, available for use stellar-cycle round due to the high glass dome. Though the Praxian claimed not to have an artistic processor, Jazz thought he had more vision than he realized.

 

There were no guards actively using the yard. They would have cleared it for his use of course in a spark beat, but Jazz thought Prowl would have been leery of interrupting their training so he was glad that it would not be necessary. Captain Gripper’s presence on the field, with a half dozen guards suggested that a training session had only just finished. Where half or so Polihexians wore visors, Gripper kept his gold optics uncovered. It may have signalled that they were not as photosensitive, or it may simply have been a matter of enjoying showing his rarer coloured optics off. As always, the guards and their captain dropped to the floor upon seeing Jazz. The only thing more annoying than having this happen several times a ‘cycle was the knowledge that sooner or later, he would be used to it, and even expect it.

 

With a gesture of his servo, the guards and their captain stood, and Jazz led Prowl passed. The armoury was located at the far end of the yard, and as always, guarded by a pair of well trained guardmech. They did not question their sovereign as he led the Praxian prince inside. Jazz was never questioned by the guards or the Palace’s staff, only his counsel. He hoped if he did something particularly reckless or repugnant someone might speak up, but it was doubtful. On the other servo, they would probably say something to Tracks, or at least speak to enough mechs that the rumours made their way to the viceroy, and Tracks would not be afraid to verbally eviscerate Jazz, and thank Primus for that. The farthest corner of the armoury was his, barred from general access by an encryption he had written himself. He punished it in, and gesture for Prowl to walk ahead of him. It was not a large collection, as the Polihexian did not keep a crazy number of weapons, and they were all in boxes or cases. Jazz opened the safe that held his little used rifle and blaster. Prowl produced a rifle unlike on the sovereign had ever seen.

 

“Praxian style?” He asked.

 

“It is an acid pellet rifle,” Prowl explained. “They have not been particularly popular, even in Praxus for millenia, but I have found it to be a reliable weapon. When needed it acts as any standard laser rifle, but it also fires acid round which can damage buildings or disable opponents.”

 

“Smart,” Jazz said. “Even if ya don’t make a kill shot it’s gonna anyone ya hit ain’t gonna be comeback at ya. I can think of a few times, somethin’ like that woulda been useful.”

 

“I have only needed to use it on duty twice,” the Praxian revealed. “But in both instances, I do not believe the results would have been as desirable with a standard rifle. As you may have expected, it was not acceptable practice to put me near an active incident. It was practice that I be a safe distance away, observing, or at the scene after the incident was over. I used it to take down a door, allowing Enforcers to access a suspect in was incident, and I used it to eliminate a hostage taker in another.”

 

“Did the hostage survive?” The sovereign asked.

 

“Hostages,” Prowl corrected. “One was killed before I took the shot. I eliminated the offender before he could kill a second time.”

 

“Ya regret not takin’ it earlier?” Jazz asked, though he already knew the answer.

 

“Yes,” the Praxian replied. “I was not prepared to take a shot before he killed. The snipers on scene did not believe they had clear shots. I cannot say if this was so or not. After he killed the first hostage, I calculated where a sniper would need to be in order to make the shot required. It was clear negotiations would not bring about the most desirable results. The offender was not interested in speaking. I climbed to the roof rather than station a sniper there. I have good optics, and good aim. If there was a shot, I knew I could make it, and I did.”

 

“Glad ya saved the others,” the Polihexian said. “Sorry for the one that ya lost. Have the rifle with ya if yer ever near a scene here. Ya might just need it a third time. Did ya ever go shootin’ with your brothers?”

 

“I will,” Prowl agreed. “Smokescreen is not fond of hunting or target practice. I taught Bluestreak. He is a better shot than I, as he should be. His visual sensors, including his visual cortex was modified. He sees considerably farther, and can go so far as to see air currents if he focuses.”

 

“Do his mods give’m grief?” Jazz asked, thinking of the trouble Prowl had with his.

 

“He gets helmaches,” the prince explained. “Overall he does well. He enjoys shooting, though we never did more than target shooting. I do not know how he will fair in a real combat situation. It is my hope he will be kept from it.”

 

“’N I’ll hope the same,” the sovereign said. Once Prowl’s rockets were also locked up, he led his companion from the armoury. The guards working with Captain Gripper were finishing up their clean up post training. This time Jazz had his servo up before anymech could prostrate himself. “Prince Prowl ‘n me will be sparrin’ for a few breams. Ya can go ‘bout yer business, just don’t interfere.”

 

 

“Will you want the field marked?” Gripper asked.

 

“Please,” the sovereign replied. The captain flicked a switch and a grid illuminated on the training field, the centre square would mark the border of their sparring space. Any limb, arm or leg out of the square would cost points. Jazz knew Prowl would have an accurate, and honest total running in his helm throughout their match, not that he would not be keeping a running total himself.

 

“What are the rules of this match?” Prowl asked as he stopped opposite Jazz in the square. Both mech began their stretches.

 

“Freematch,” Jazz said. “Any art, or trick. No attacks on optics, no serious damage. Seem fair?”

 

“I agree with the parameters,” the Praxian agreed.

 

The guards were not going about their business, not that Gripper was directing them to. They had gather along the wall of the yard, watching with energetic fields. Jazz hoped Prowl was not against the audience, because this was exactly what the Polihexian had wanted. There was no sign, not even the subtlest one, that the prince was leery of the guards, and Jazz thought he probably was not. A tactically minded mech like Prowl was, he probably knew exactly what Jazz wanted, and odds were, he probably approved. Prowl would not want to be scene as helpless, not when he was about to work with the Enforcers, or really in general.

 

When their stretches were completed the mechs met in the centre of their square, and bowed, before falling back into stances. Circuit-Su favoured grabbling and throws, and Diffusion favoured keeping your opponent off balance, and pushing servos. Jazz reached for Prowl, who pushed his servo away with a fluid sweep, that had the Polihexian stepping back, and out of the way of a strike aimed to his side. Nice. This was going to be fun. They traded strikes, and holds. Neither uprooted the other much, or gained any real ground. Both successfully blocked more hits than got in, and both pulled their strikes to avoid inflicting any damage. Diffusion proved more effective than Jazz had expected against Cirtcuit-Su, and Prowl was fast, very fast, and very good at blocking. The end came suddenly as the Polihexian managed to catch his opponent by the plating on his upper chassis. Before he could pull Prowl into a hold, and bring him to his knees, the Praxian pulled him in, and threw him down. Jazz’s back hit the ground and he looked up and laughed.

 

“Snuck a little Circuit-Su in there,” he said.

 

“Surprise can be the most effective attack,” Prowl replied, as he offered his arm. Jazz took it and let himself be pulled to his peds.

 

“’M thinkin’ ya more’n dabbled in Circuit-Su,” Jazz wondered out loud, grinning.

 

“As much as you dabbled in Metallikato,” the prince replied. “You were careful not to harm me. You could have.”

 

“Sure, ‘n ya could’ve hurt me,” the Polihexian said. “That was fun. Curious though, why Diffusion?”

 

“Smokescreen thought I would benefit from the meditation and exercises,” Prowl explained. “I trained in the combat style later, and learned Circuit-Su to enhance my defensive training.”

 

“Same reason I added Metallikato,” Jazz revealed. “I wanted to extend my reach, blades’re good for that.”

 

Friendly spar done, Jazz led Prowl off the practice field. He knew the guards, including their captain, would be spreading news of the spar across the palace. They had not pulled any flashy or dramatic moves, but they had fought with skill, and that was the point. Prowl was as good or better than Jazz had expected, but as he had said, he had trained for defence. Jazz’s training had a considerably different source, he had trained to kill. There were aspects of the pushing hand techniques he thought learning might help on more of his defence, and how to circumvent them. He also thought helping Prowl further his Circuit-Su training would also be a worthwhile pass time. This was something they could do together, that they would both enjoy. Perhaps Jazz would hire a Master in Circuit-Su and Metallikato to train them, and any guards that might have been inclined to learn. It was something to consider.

 

“Wanna take a look at the ole garden, ‘n see what we got to work with?” The sovereign asked as they left the training yard behind.

 

“I would,” the Praxian agreed. “I have visited that wing.”

 

It had been his grand-progenitor that had dismantled the last harem, in part to differentiate his principality, and his reign from that of his counterpart in Uraya. That was not to say he had kept only his consort, the mech had had two lovers, one of which had been the Official Amica Endura, the other had never ascended beyond the mere rank of concubine, and though he had opened up the locked doors, both the Official Amica Endura and the concubine had both resided in their old rooms within the former harem, rather than in suites within the sovereign prince’s wing. Still, it had been better than being locked inside the glittering walls.

 

Though perhaps not. What had that concubine thought, never having managed to rise to the respectable rank of Official Amica Endura, but also never freed to find a Conjunx Endura. Freedom would have been an illusion to that mech, and Jazz wondered what had happened to him when Exhaust had died unexpectedly young, just as his creation Greyshield had. Jazz’s progenitor had opened it up further but he had never completed the project. So far as Jazz knew, both his grand-progenitor’s Official Amica Endura, and concubine had been “encouraged” to retire outside the court. At least the Official Amica Endura would have received a settlement, but what about the concubine? It was no wonder the harem looked dull, and tired now. Servants within the palace considered it a deeply unlucky place. They must all have heard stories of their predecessors that had served the harem, not permitted to leave the silver and gold cage until they had greyed. Jazz was going to have to reassure them that the harem was being repurposed, not renovated.

 

“This is, or was the garden,” Jazz explained, as he showed Prowl the dry fountains and bath. “I’d like to figure out how to use this whole space. It’s a lotta rooms mostly sittin’ empty.”

 

“The struts are good,” Prowl observed. “It would have been a beautiful cage.”

 

“But still a cage,” the Polihexian replied. It might have been Prowl’s cage, Jazz tried, but he could not imagine keeping his companion locked in this place, even at the peak of it’s beauty. He could not imagine the mech being even remotely happy, he could imagine himself coming here to seek... Thank primus Polihex had changed. “’M glad my grand-father opened it up. He spent most of his time at war with Uraya. This is probably his best legacy.”

 

“Yes,” the prince said. “I would agree. I understand sovereign prince’s of Polihex have the right to four Amica Endurae. There appear to be more than suites for four mechanisms.”

 

“Harem had its own servants,” Jazz explained. “Own entertainers, ‘n none of them were allowed to leave. But it wasn’t just Official Amica Endurae, see that’s a titled. A Prince of Polihex could have as many concubines as he wished. Still could... I guess. Laws probably haven’t changed. In the end they were all slaves ‘cause if ya lock someone up, ‘n use’em as ya like, that mechanism’s a slave. Probably why most servants workin’ here think these rooms are unlucky.”

 

“They have bad history but they are only rooms,” Prowl replied. He knelt by the single crystal still struggling to grow in the abandoned garden. By it’s dull colour it was closer to dead than alive, and though it may have towered at one point, but it was no larger than Prowl’s servo now. With the utmost care, he plucked it from the ground. “There is still the opporunity for light and life. This will need care, but it will live and grow.”

 

“You’ve raised crystals?” The sovereign asked.

 

“The miniature garden in my suite is fortunate to be alive, for all I have neglected it,” the Praxian admitted. “This one will need new soil, and energon. Should it live, we can plant it here when the project is complete.”

 

“I like that idea,” Jazz said, he touched Prowl’s arm and smiled. “Actually, I think I love it. It can be the first one planted.”

 

Prowl smiled, soft and just a little bemused. Perhaps he was making a fool of himself with his enthusiasm, but Jazz found he did not care. He walked around the dried fountains and tried to envision what might be done for those make suites and berthrooms. Jazz had no desire to move his and Prowl’s suites here, it was still far too much space for two mech, and beyond that, he thought he would like the space to be free for all to use, unlike his garden. It would be a place of quiet. Gut the suites, remove them all together. Could it serve as another library? The possibilities were near endless, and maybe that was what excited Jazz. This was a place that could be stripped bare and built new. When it was done, it would be a refuge, and not just for him.

 

“I have no fraggin’ idea what to do with the suites,” he said. “Maybe absorb them into the rest of the palace, maybe rip’em out ‘n leave it open. Hopefully the Master Artisan has some ideas.”

 

“He does good work,” Prowl replied. “As do your gardeners. Whatever way they are re-purposed, it will be an attract space.”

 

“Ya’ll help me figure out it out?” Jazz asked. “Ain’t just for me. I’d like it to be a place for you to go when ya want a little quiet.”

 

“I will offer any opinions I have,” the Praxian promised. “A quiet space alone sounds more than pleasant.”

 

“I thought so too,” the sovereign replied.

 

“I was under the impression you enjoyed music,” Prowl said and canted his helm.

 

“I do,” Jazz confirmed, and he smiled as he imagined what the neglected garden might yet become. “But I like quiet too. There’s more to hear.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

The Rains came two mega-cycles after Smokescreen returned to Praxus. Prowl was unsure what he had been expecting, but certainly not this. Acid rain hammered the palace’s roofs, and thunder rolled and lightening crashed above his helm. Storms in Praxus could be this vicious at times, but only rarely, and they never lasted long. Jazz had shrugged his shoulders when the storm had first begun, apparently this was a mild start, and the storms were only going to grow in power with the coming orns. The prince understood why the gardeners had been working so feverishly to take cuttings, transplant or cover the thousands of crystals used in the many gardens. It seemed impossible that anything could survive under the relentless downpour like this for more than a few mega-cycles. 

 

Prowl found the pounding rain on the roof above his helm unsettling, and it took more self control than he may have expected to resisted shrinking back whenever the sky let out an especially loud crash. How the buildings of Polihex could survive quartex after quartex, vorn after vorn of this abuse, he could not fathom. Their building materials, though they looked no different than the metals used in Praxus, had to be made of considerably more durable ore. Even with a stronger base, the maintenance of Polihex’s infrastructure would have to be far beyond those used in Praxus, and this was an intriguing observation. Praxus thought itself to be the centre of art and development, and it was a beautiful and technologically advanced empire, but storms like these would eat away at the Helix gardens, and most of the great buildings in Prowl’s homeland. Obviously, the “feral” principality had lessons they could teach their “betters”, though the Praxian imagined that these were secrets Polihex would be in no hurry to share.

 

He resisted wasting any further thought on the storm because despite the dreary weather, this was a good mega-cycle. Prowl was to start work with the Enforcer in only a joor, and that was enough to banish any displeasure over acid rains and thunder. His chamber attendant stood next to him, looking dubiously up at the dark skies. Nightbeat had not even been the slightest bit subtle when he had suggested he accompany his “lord” to the Enforcer precinct. Either he knew Prowl would be aware that he was not meant to be only a groom, or he was as hopeless as his master when it came to intrigue. Had Nightbeat not seemed genuinely excited about the prospect of spending the mega-cycle amongst the Enforcers, the prince might have refused his companionship, but the brightly coloured Praxian was almost... giddy, though he was trying to hide it. 

 

That was another intriguing thought. Prowl had no particular interest in training Nightbeat, teaching was not one of his fortes, but if Nightbeat showed the approprite initiative, perhaps the Praxian prince could pull the necessary strings to have the mech enrolled in Polihex’s Enforcer training program. They did not have an academy devoted to such training as they did in Praxus, did but Jazz had already voiced a desire to have a program added to the Academy of Science, and if that happened, if Nightbeat was interested, he may well be amongst the first students of its students. It was a lot of ifs, but Prowl preferred to think that his chamber attendant might actually want to be in Polihex, might benefit from it. That idea was certainly favourable to having a servant that resented his position, or one that would resent his position in time.

 

“You were given the finish suited for this weather?” Prowl asked.

 

“Yes, Your Imperial Highness,” Nighbeat replied. “One of my neighbours helped. He assured me that the application is good.”

 

“Good,” the prince said, he looked at the yellow-faced mech. “Here I am simply Your Highness, or whatever diminutive may come to your processor, Nightbeat. It is not appropriate for anyone to suggest my rank is higher than his Serene Highness’.”

 

“I understand,” the attendant replied, nodding quickly. “That does make some sense, Your Highness.”

 

“When we arrive at the precinct I request that you remain silent, unless asked directly for a comment,” Prowl explained as they stepped into the storm. The Praxians both winced at the first drops of rain bounced off their plating. Their finishes were as good as promised. Nightbeat grinned, and the prince could not decide if this was an ill omen.

 

“Yes, my lord,” Nightbeat promised, his doorwings dipped just a fraction. “I’ll leave the investigating to the experts!”

 

“Have you done any yourself?” The monochrome Praxian asked, detecting a slight emphasis on that one glyph. He transformed, the other mech did the same, and the waited. Though their primary modes were protected rather well by their finishes, fewer vulnerable parts were exposed in vehicle mode and it was wiser to wait for Jazz in these modes. 

 

“I followed some glues, and caught poachers that were stalking Lord Grandfall’s lands,” the colourful mech explained. “The poaching might have been ignored, after all the lord of the manor was not around to hunt at the time, but they assaulted the gameskeeper when he happened to catch them by surprise. When we were young my brother dubbed me Inspector of Lost Property because I was always finding things other mechanisms thought were lost for good.”

 

“That was well done,” Prowl said, in regards to his attenant catching the poachers. “Did you consider enlisting in the Enforcers in Praxus.”

 

“I’m the creation of chamber attendants and housekeepers,” Nightfall replied. “The Enforcers were never an option, my Lord. Median is awfully remote. It has no full-time Enforcers, just a lone vigilum under Lord Grandfall’s jurisdiction. I hoped, I hope that it might be me some ‘cycle.”

 

“Provided it is something you might wish, you may have the opportunity to attend training here in Polihex,” the prince revealed. “His Serene Highness has asked my assistance in investigating the viability of an Enforcer curriculum at the Science, and Technology Academy here in the capital. As you will be shadowing me during my work within the Enforcers, you may decide if proper training is something you would want.”

 

“Really?!” the chamber attendant asked, as he actually bounced on his wheels, his enthusiasm startling his more restrained master. Prowl resisted counting this unbridled glee against the mech, this behaviour mirrored Bluestreak’s, so how could he fairly fault Nightbeat his enthusiasm? 

 

“Sounds like ya like the idea,” Jazz said as he walked up. Had the mech not sounded pleased, Prowl would have felt embarrassed to have been caught sharing news of the yet undeveloped program with his new attendant. “Most of my Enforcers got their trainin’ through the precincts. The program’s gonna be a real shift. ‘M hopin’ servin’ Enforcers’ll enroll to expand their trainin’, ‘n its gonna open it to them first. Ya might just start at the precinct ‘n move to the program in a couple’a vorns when it’s ready to go. Don’t think the Praefectus’ll complain, if that’s what ya wanna do. Just the same, I’d like ya to stick with Prince Prowl for a while.”

 

“Yes, Your Serene Highness!” Nightbeat said, enthused, yet serious at the same time. 

 

So Jazz understood Nightbeat’s true purpose just as well as Prowl did. That was not a terrible thing. In some ways the Praxian preferred not to have such a secret hanging over his helm. From his tone, the sovereign wanted Nightbeat guarding Prowl, at least for now. Was this due to a real threat he had not yet revealed to Prowl, or simply general concern? The tactical trained Praxian would ask, should he think of it later, but for now he set it aside. Nightbeat’s presence was unlike to disrupt his work, and resisting his presence would no doubt get back to Smokescreen, and somehow or another Prowl’s brother would find away to blame it on Jazz. It was definitely not a battle worth fighting, not without real gains to be made.

 

Unlike their previous trip to the precinct, six guards appeared, and transformed one set off. As he drove away, Jazz signalled that Prowl and Nightbeat were to follow. Two guards flanked their sides, and the sixth guard followed behind. When they exited the Palace gates, the prince was surprised to see a crowd gathered. True, he had known that news that he, the Amica Endura of the Prince, was going to serve the Enforcers had spread to every district of the capital, but this show surprised him. He would have thought that the weather would have kept more mechanisms indoors, but there were hoards of mechanisms lining the street that led away from the Palace. Despite the puddles, those gathered fell their knees, and stretch out their arms, in the Polihexian way, as their Prince drove by. They did not seem to particularly mind it either. Prowl supposed it made sense, the Rains were an annual phenomenon here, just another part of life.

 

Unlike Praxus, Polihex was actually quite a multi-cultural city. Though the Polihexian frametype was by far the dominant, amongst them were Urayans like the viceroy, Kalisites, Kaonites, Altihexians, and even the rarest of all, femmes. It struck Prowl that his being a foreign frame was considerably less of an oddity than he had thought. True, he saw no Praxians, not that he was not scouring the crowds, but being a foreign frame alone was not enough to draw particular attention, and that felt like a positive thing. He would never be Polihexian, but that by no means meant he could not come to belong, at least on some level. Prowl was struck by an uncharacteristic surge of optimism.

 

The Praefects Vigilum, and a dozen or so senior Enforcers were waiting on the sidewalk when Prowl, and his companions arrived. Jazz transformed first, fluidly walking forward as he was still in the transformation sequence. The Praxians both followed quickly, Nightbeat keeping a few steps back, true to Praxian customs. Prowl saw the Praefectus give his attendant a questioning look, but the older mech stuck to proper protocol and focused his attention first on Jazz, and then on him. As before, the Praefectus Vigilum bowed, but did not prostrate himself, and neither did his Enforcers. At the edge of his vision, the Praxian prince saw crowds of Polihexians and other frametypes gathered behind crowd control fencing, guarded by lower ranking Enforcers. Every one of the crowd was kneeling, helms on the wet ground, towards Jazz. He would get used to this, Prowl realized. Overtime the eccentricities of the Polihex would feel normal, for now, however, the Praxin prince felt uneasy. To his credit, Nightbeat did not react to the scene, so whether he was perturbed, or curious, Prowl could not tell, and he approved of the show of professionalism.

 

“Why don’t we get out of the rain,” the Praefectus Vigilum suggested. “Everything’s ready.”

 

“Sounds like an idea I can get behind,” Jazz replied. With a small tiled of his helm, and a broad smile, he beckoned Prowl to join him, immediately at his side, and as he was fond of doing, he rested a servo on the small of the Praxian’s back. Though Prowl had been uncertain how he ought to feel, or to react to this before, Prowl now found that he appreciated the gesture, and unconsciously the Praxian relaxed. The Praefectus led them up the steps and into the station, and as they followed Jazz waved at the crowds, and they exploded into cheers. Out of instinct, Prowl nodded his helm to the gathered mechanisms, and then they cheered for him, to his considerable surprise.

 

“Normally investiture ceremonies would be held in the training fields outside the city limits,” the elderly Enforcer explained. Prowl was immediately confused. “The Rains of Adaptus makes than an untenable idea, so we’ve set up the press room for this purpose.”

 

“No press, I hope,” the sovereign said.

 

“No, only Enforcers will be present,” the Praefectus replied. “It’s considered something of a private ceremony. Kin can be present, but never gawkers.”

 

“I was unaware there was to be a ceremony,” Prowl interjected, feeling awkward and foolish.

 

“Ya told me ya had to remove yer glyphs before ya came here,” Jazz explained. “Since yer gonna serve the Enforcers here, yer gettin’em back.”

 

Prowl almost crashed then and there. It was only the weight of Jazz’s servo on his back that kept his processor from locking up. This would be a terrible place to crash, absolutely terrible. He took a slow intake, quietly, subtly trying to draw more air into his frame, to cool his overheating processor. Jazz ran his servo in small circles on his back, obviously intending to reassure Prowl. What an embarrassing debacle. He hoped no one noticed, and as he walked on he looked about, inconspicuously as he could, no one appeared to have noticed him freeze up. The relief Prowl felt was strong enough he all but tasted it, but the sprince let no outward sign of it slip through, as he carefully gathered control over his emotions again. And yet Jazz still noticed, but that was not exactly surprising, he was a perceptive mech even when the Praxian felt most in control of his mask, Jazz seemed to be able to see the cracks, or perhaps it was the mask the sovereign noticed?

 

“Ya earned’em ya know,” the Polihexian spoke softly, for his audials only. “Ya ain’t gettin’ anythin’ ya didn’t earn.”

 

“I did not earn them here,” Prowl said, equally quietly. 

 

“Don’t much matter where ya earned’em,” Jazz replied with a huff from his vents. “Yer usin’ what ya in Praxus learned here. So ya’ll gonna have the glyphs ya earned.”

 

It sounded so simple coming from Jazz. No, he was not guileless like Bluestreak but he was excruciatingly fair. For a moment Prowl worried that he would fail, that he would not earn the right to wear those marks, but he forced the thought away, and buried it deep under his firewalls. If he could do nothing else well, he could serve the Enforcers. Prowl was an excellent investigator, and a capable administrator, and he was an effective commander, though not necessarily beloved. He would serve the function just as well in Polihex as he had in Praxus, the Praxian had no doubt, he refused to doubt. When everything or anything else was in question, this was not. 

 

The Praefectus led the royals into the press room. Gather inside already were dozens of Enforcers. Upon looking over the crowd, Prowl realized that these were not merely the Enforcers stationed here, at this precinct, but representatives from those all over the capital, and even beyond. Those senior Enforcers that had been standing with the Praefectus Vigilum were captains, and commanders of these stations, or so their glyphs said. They broke away and took their seats in the front of the assembly, and as they did, the Praefectus Vigilum took the stage. Wisely, Nightbeat remained back by the door, out of the way, when Jazz led Prowl onto the stage. Prowl should not have needed the Polihexian’s presence, but the prince did, and he told himself not to feel ashamed by this. These were Jazz’s Enforcers, he was the mech out of place. Though the Praefectus and Jazz both knew his record, these Enforcers did not. It was to them that the Praxian would need to prove himself in the orns to come.

 

“The Official Amica Endura, Prince Prowl, Second Son of the Imperial House of Praxus graduated from the Praxian Empire’s Enforcer Academy with the highest marks in the institution’s history,” the Praefectus Vigilum explained to the crowd. He had a booming voice that carried, though he did not raise it at all. “He served with distinction during his tenure with the Praxian Enforcers, and I am honoured to say he has offered his vast experience to Polihex’s Enforcers, and to Polihex itself.”

 

It almost made Prowl sick to hear that title spoken so casually but it was a rather obviously sign that the Polihexians had very different feelings regarding lovers, and concubines than Praxus did. Despite knowing this, the Praxian still felt tainted by it. That taint would likely never fade, Prowl knew he would hate it for the rest of his vorns. The knowledge that it might well be his title for vorns did make him a little sick. They would call him that, mean no insult by it, and he would never be able to complain without scandalizing the entire population. Prowl forced himself to ignore the threads of his spark that clung to that shame, and forced himself to listen instead to the Praefectus Vigilum as he spoke with natural eloquence.

 

Two Enforcer’s came on stage, with paints in their servos, and Prowl realized they were not just any paints, but his. He turned his helm sharply to look at Nightbeat, who raised and lowered his doorwings in a nod. All the prince could do was stiffly dip his doorwings in return. It had been an invasion, of sorts, but Prowl was grateful for it. These were the paints he had been given when he had completed his Enforcer training and had become a fully fledged Enforcer. They had always been intended to remain with him through his entire career, each accolade, each promotion had been painted with these paints. Never expecting to use them again, but not knowing what else to do with them he had put them in his washracks. The prince had not thought that Nightbeat would ever look for them, Jazz must have asked him to. His spark constricted. Kindness, it was such a simple thing but it was enough to make Prowl’s struts go weak. When Jazz stepped forward to take the paint, the Praxian flared his doorwings with surprise. Thank Primus he did, they were about the only thing that kept him balanced.

 

“We won’t say any oaths,” the old Enforcer went on. “His oath is the Serene Highness’s, lent to us with both their blessings. Prince Prowl of Praxus. I do not invest you into the Enforcers, you already were one. The glyphs were always yours. Now wear them again.”

 

Smiling, and field exuding pride and joy, Jazz took up the brush and painted the first glyph on Prowl’s left doorwing. It made sense that it was the sovereign and not an Enforcer painting, not merely because Prowl was his lover. Apart from Nightbeat, no one present but Jazz was familiar with doorwings. With, gentle and fluid strokes, the Polihexian painted glyphs that marked Prowl’s rank, and some of his awards on that doorwing, before moving on to paint the rest on his right doorwing. Yet still, the act felt so very intimate. When he had painted each glyph, Jazz stepped back, and handed he paints back to the Enforcers. Prowl looked over to his left doorwing and saw the blue and gold crest that marked him as an Enforcer, and he felt... whole.

 

“I am honoured to serve Polihex’s Enforcers,” Prowl said. 

 

“Polihex is changing, and so must the Enforcers,” the Praefectus Vigilum explained. “There is science none of us have learned, investigatory techniques we need to learn. As Vigilum Secondus I ask that you share your knowledge with us so the Enforcers of Polihex might be equal to the Enforcers of even the greatest empires for the safeguard of our citizens.”

 

“My knowledge is Polihex’s,” the Praxian replied. Vigilum Secondus. That made him the second highest ranked Enforcer in Polihex. It was startling, and though it was also gratifying, he was concerned that some Polihexian Enforcer might have lost his rank in order for Prowl to gain it. He hoped not. Prowl did not want to start his service here with that sort of resentment on his helm.

 

The ceremony closed. Jazz stepped back as the Enforcer captains and commanders came up to make their introductions. Despite spending his youngling vorns in the court of his procreator, and his adult vorns with the Enforcers, the crowd of mechs still managed to feel a little suffocating. Prowl kept his helm up, spoke with each of the Enforcers as they introduced themselves, and resisted flaring his vents. No one touched him, or crowded his doorwings, they had either schooled themselves on Praxian etiquette or were treating him as they would a Seeker or Seekerkin. It was the respectful space that allowed the Praxian to figuratively grit his denta, and get through the ordeal. With each Enforcer, Prowl actually became a little more comfortable. These mechs were by nature of their culture more affable than any Praxian would be to a mech of an elevated rank, but they were still Enforcers, and professionals. The affability still showed through, and the prince thought he preferred it to the rigidity of his Enforcer commanders, though in this thought Prowl had to admit he was a hypocrite. Few could claim to be as rigid has him.

 

Finally, the last of the senior Enforcers had been introduced, and the Praefectus Vigilum dismissed them. No one loitered, they had enough professionalism to do as their commander had requested and return to their duties, either at this station, or in their home precincts. That left on the Praefectus, Jazz and Nightbeat in the room with Prowl. Seeing that Nightbeat continiued to remain by the door, the Enforcer prince gestured for him to come up to the stage. If the colourful Praxian was going to act as the prince’s guard during his Enforcer shifts, the Praefectus Vigilum would need to be introduced. It occurred to Prowl that Nightbeat looked a little awestruck by the Enforcer commander, and the Enforcer prince felt just a bit bemused.

 

“Praefectus Vigilum,” Prowl said. “This is Nightbeat. He is to act as my personal guard.”

 

“My wish,” Jazz added smoothly. “So ya don’t gotta assign one of yer Enforcer’s to the beat.”

 

“Have you any experience with Enforcers, Nightbeat?” The old Enforcer asked.

 

“No Sir,” Nightbeat replied.

 

“But you can fire a weapon, you can guard His Highness?” The Praefectus Vigilum asked.

 

“Yes Sir,” the attendant confirmed. “I learned to shoot on the manor lands of my procreators’ master. I’m a good shot, when shooting’s necessary. But I’m really good at spotting thing that don’t fit. I can get my prince away from any danger.”

 

“I agree that avoiding trouble is going to be preferable to engaging with it,” the Elder mech said. “Tell me, are you interested in the work of the Enforcers?” 

 

“Yes sir!” Nightbeat replied. He had so obviously tried to appear serious, but the enthusiasm that obviously came naturally to him was too much for him to contain. “All my life!”

 

“Well then I think you’ll have an excellent opportunity to learn as you watch over His Highness,” the Praefectus Vigilum declared. Prowl released the vent he had been holding. “Your Serene Highness, I’d like to take Prince Prowl on a tour of the precinct. Did you want to stay?”

 

“No, I’ll leave ya to yer work,” Jazz replied. “’N come back at the end o’ the shift to collect my mechs. Be safe.”

 

Jazz lightly kissed Prowl as a good bye, and the Praxian’s spark flared just a little. They were in public so he did nothing to deepen or lengthen the kiss, but he did return it. Public displays of affection were very obviously the norm in Polihex, and it would have been abnormal if Jazz has not demonstrated affection for his Official Amica Endura, but it still felt a little risque to the Praxian, and he was happy that the kiss was short and chaste. That did not mean that he did not enjoy it, Prowl absolutely had, and when it ended he continued to feel the heat of it on his lipplates. The prince inclined his helm as the Polihexian hopped off the stage. Jazz took a step, then paused, in what was obviously an afterthought. He turned to Nightbeat, and said:

 

“Keep those optics open.”

 

***

 

Surprising Prowl had almost been a mistake. It had not occurred to Jazz that such a move would make the Praxian’s legs buckle. He needed to remember that something as basic as kindness or fairness was foreign to Prowl, as hideous and unfathomable a thought as that was. The prince had recovered well from the shock, had leaned back into his touch as they had walked onto the stage. Jazz was just glad that Prowl was comfortable enough to accept the support, and the affection that was its root motivation, and he may even have been glad for it. That affection was very real too, though the Polihexian could not say he was in love with the mech, he cared about him, and could even go far enough to claim to love him like he did Blaster, as a friend. 

 

Having a friend for a lover was not a terrible thing, and having a friend for consort would not be so bad either. That was is project of the ‘cycle, while Prowl settled into the Enforcers, Jazz wanted to see if there was any loophole hidden in Polihex’s history that would allow him to elevate the Official Amica Endura to consort without him emerging an heir. There was enough weight on Prowl’s shoulders, and this one in particular seemed horribly unfair, and Jazz did not want it on his shoulders either. They had not merged sparks, were a long ways from that level of intimacy, and while Prowl could potentially kindle from conventional interfacing alone due to the nature of his spark, and probably would given enough time, the Polihexian had to hope that that was at least a vorns or even a decavorn out. 

 

In truth it could take as little as one overload for a receptive spark to kindle, though that was rare. Kindling was not often so easy, not even for receptive sparks like Prowl’s. For two contributive sparks to kindle it often took vorns of regular merges, and even then it often failed. There was one type of frame to which budding, or asexual procreation came easily, and that was the sort of frame Blaster had, he was a cassette-carrier, and each of his Cassetticons had budded from his spark without the involvement of any other mechanism. If Blaster ever wished to carry a creation with his frametype however, he would need to create with another mech. Though Jazz had watched over the Cassetticons on several occasions, and loved them as if they were from his sparkline, creating had never been something the Polihexian had planned to do. Having grown up with a spy for an originator, and having been dragged into some of the darkest corners of Cybertron, Jazz had sworn he would never bring a creation into that. He would not now, of course, his life was very different than it had been only two stellar-cycles ago, but his processor had not shifted so much that he _wanted_ a creation, not yet in any case. Never was not going to be an option for him though.

 

H e felt some pressure, not from Tracks, not from Prowl but from himself. Jazz wanted to rid Prowl of that slagging title, and if he could just find away to do it without rushing to create, that would be perfect.  The sovereign had seen the Praxian’s doorwings rise up when the Praefectus Vigilum had called Prowl the Offical Amica Endura, of course the Enforcer commander had  had  no way to know that the title was a mark of shame for the prince, not a title worth any honour, or influence. Jazz thought no Polihexian with in the court or even outside of it would understand how degrading that title felt to Prowl,  a Praxian , and the mech would be unlikely to dare to speak up. This was Polihex, and in the principality being the official lover of the Sovereign Prince was a  job, even a  thing of honour, though a dubious enough one in some circles.  Despite some societ al issues, mostly surrounding the temples, and clan politics, m echanisms had  aspired to claim the title of Official Amica Endura, even in Jazz’s ‘genitor’s reign, even when it was well known that any gain would come at a real price, due to Consort Raisonne’s jealousy. So far as the Polihexian knew, no one was aspiring to be his Official Amica Endura in place of Prowl, and Jazz had muted the councillors from  ev er any of their kin up  again . If he could  make it so , Jazz thought he would like his legacy to be the end of that title. A mech had to have something to work for.

 

Though Jazz hoped Tracks would not argue against his plan, the Polihexian went to the library alone, and gathered up every datapad he could on the laws, archaic and new to study.  He had no intention of sharing his studies with the Viceroy, or even Prowl. The last thing Jazz wanted to do was tell Prowl, and give him false hope, so if the laws were inflexible, then  only Jazz would be disappointed,  and only then would he  consider  bring in g in Tracks. Trying to  actually change the laws at this stage, maybe even ever would imply that Prowl or he might be sterile, though so far as the Polihexian knew, this was not the case for either of them.  Th e truth would not matter,  however j ust the implication  c ould cause  serious instability, and anxiety and that was just not something Jazz could risk .

 

As he read, the sovereign’s hope faded. The laws were older and considerably tighter than he had feared, and instead of finding a spark of hope through his reading, Jazz discovered a snippet of his family history Greyshield had kept tightly buried, and the Polihexian was going to wish he had never uncovered. Consort Raisonne had not been the dead Prince’s first consort, but his third. Jazz had known that his ‘genitor had been on the older side for a creations as young as he and Ric but he had just thought that it had taken some time for the Consort to kindle, and the young Polihexian had never imagined that there had been a series of consorts before Raisonne. Suddenly it was very clear why the mech had been so jealous and suspicious, he had known that he could be replaced, considerably more easily that Jazz might have thought.

 

His ‘genitor’s first Consort had been a mech called Trip-Up, the second a mech called Jackpot. Greyshield had been bonded to Trip-Up for millenia without the mech emerging an heir and as was his right, Jazz was now learning, the Prince had divorced his Consort and tonsured him at a temple in the south. The dead Prince had not waited for Jackpot to emerge an heir for even as many as a million stellar-cycles, only thousands, and when he had not emerged an heir, he had been tonsured in a temple, this one to the east. Despite the sick feeling in his spark, the sovereign kept reading. The more he read, the sicker he felt. Trip-Up had miscarried twelve times. Twelve losses, and rather than stand by his consort, rather than care for that poor mech, Greyshield had discharged him only quartexes after the last miscarriage. 

 

Fine, Jazz’s ‘genitor would have needed an heir, but he could have kindled with his Official Amica Endura. Except as the Polihexian continued his research he found that not only Trip-Up had been discharged but also the Official Amica Endura of near as many vorns. Greyshield had wiped the slate clean, and had taken not only Jackpot to be Consort, but he had taken a new Offical Amica Endura too, a position that would be discharged and filled every thousand stellar-cycles or so from then on. When Jackpot miscarried the only newspark he kindled with, he had been divorced after a several thousand years of bonding. Raisonne was chosen next, at the time of the bonding he had been a young, and gregarious mech, and he had nearly been divorced, just like his predecessors, still young but no longer gregarious, when Punch had kindled before him. To his good fortune, he had been found to be carrying Ricochet before the proceedings, determinedly blocked by his brother, Turbofire, could go through. The fact that Ricochet and Jazz had emerged on the same mega-cycle had seemed like a charming or romantic story, but the truth was a sadder thing. Upon hearing that the Offical Amica Endura had entered emergence, Raisonne had had his initiated by a medic. He had been determined to see his creation emerge first, but despite the medic’s intervention, Jazz had still emerged a few joors before Ricochet.

 

Jazz turned off the datapa d and put his face in his servo s . He had never wanted to believe his ‘genitor could be intentionally cruel, but how else could you rationalize locking two mechs up in temples because they suffered miscarriage s ? It was callous, and it was cruel, and it stained what good memories the sovereign had formed of his ‘genitor during the last quartexes of the old Prince’s life. All his joors of reading had found no way to elevated Prowl from his current rank to that of Consort, without an heir emerging, all they had found were dirty, and dark secrets. The fact that the tonsuring of Jackpot and Trip-Up had not been scandalizing to the court gnawed at Jazz’s spark. Polihex suddenly felt like a far uglier place. 

 

“Jazz?” Tracks called his designation from across the library. “The guards are waiting for you.”

 

“What?” Jazz raised his helm.

 

“Prince Prowl’s shift will be over in a joor,” the viceroy said. Jazz jumped to his peds, datapads clattering to the floor. Tracks gave him a look. “Now what’s all this about?”

 

“You know anythin’ ‘bout Trip-Up and Jackpot?” The Polihexian asked.

 

“Very little,” Tracks replied. “Speaking of either was only done in the softest whispers, and not only because of Raisonne’s temper.”

 

“My ‘genitor didn’t want to hear their designations,” Jazz guessed.

 

“That was my thought,” the Urayan agreed.

 

“Where are they?” Jazz asked.

 

“At this point, I would think back with their clans,” Tracks said. “Tonsuring is generally only temporary.”

 

“Could ya check?” The sovereign asked. “If they’re still locked up in temples, unless that’s where they wanna be, I want the doors opened up.”

 

“I’ll find out what I can right away,” the Viceroy promised. “But Jazz, what brought this on.”

 

“It knocks Prowl back every time some mech calls ‘m Official Amica Endura,” Jazz explained, venting a long sigh. “I hoped I’d find a way to make ‘m my consort before he carries, even if he never does. All I did was find out my ‘genitor was a slagtard.”

 

“I’m sorry, Jazz,” Tracks said. “I’ll see what I can find out. Go get your Praxian.”

 

Jazz had nearly arrived at the precinct before it  would  occur to him that Tracks had called Prowl Jazz’s Praxian. It had not been meant as dismissive, or insulting, but  instead it had been Tracks’ way of being considerate to what Prowl, and in the end  what  Jazz  preferred . He had realized, it would not have been hard to, realize, that the sovereign  had learned to hate  the title the Praxian was forced to wear, close to as much as Prowl did,  and  the Viceroy had dropped the titled faster than Jazz had even in his own processor. Rather than refer to Prowl as Official Amica Endura, even though he had not been there to hear,  he had chosen a safe glyph. It may have been a bit half aft but it was a nice gesture, especially coming from  Tracks.

 

Despite getting out of the Palace late Jazz and his contingent of guards made it to the precinct before Prowl’s shift ended. The Praxian may not have minded  waiting , but the sovereign  very much minded the idea . He felt guilty for losing all track of time, even though Prowl had not been stuck waiting for him, the principle mattered.  His guards transforme d,  and each did a separate 360 turn, checking for signs of danger. Unlike earlier in the ‘cycle, the Enforcers did not have crowd control set up, but there also were not any massive crowds  to be concerned with .  Despite the lack of crowds, there were  still  two Enforcers stationed outside the door,  just barely under the overhang, and out of the rains,  keeping an optic on the street. There were still mechanism about on the  clustered, just metres away ,  though considerably fewer  than earlier in the light-cycle. Still there were more mechanisms out than he had expected , and when Jazz transforme d , they  all dropped down, and bowed. As was his habit, Jazz remained where he was, and waited for those bowing to him to return to their peds.  W hen they had he waved to all those gathered. In a matter of quartexes he would be addressing Polihex as a whole from the balcony of his palace, but until then he could communicate what sort of mech he was in little gestures like this. 

 

He did not remain o ut in the rain for long , and trotted up the precinct’s steps  after maybe a klik , followed  closely by two of the guards . As Jazz was entering the lobby, Prowl was coming up from the halls, alongside the Praefectus, with Nightbeat  following along behind them . The Praxian  prince  looked in his element, proud and tall, none of it a mask he forced upon himself.  This mech before him was  _Prowl,_ and  Jazz smiled at the sight  of him . Even wearing that cold mask  he fell back on , Prowl was beautiful  in a way that could be almost brittle , but he was actually stunning now. Pride had  a transformative effect on the  Praxian , and the  sovereign felt a surge of pride as he saw the glyphs he had painted on Prowl’s doorwings glint as they caught the light. Though it remained to be seen if Jazz could make the prince his consort sooner, rather than later, at least he had done this for him, at least he had been able to give the Enforcers back to him.

 

“Good mid-cycle, Jazz,” Prowl said as he joined the Polihexian in the lobby.

 

“Ya look like y’re in yer element, Prowler,” Jazz observed. “Praefectus, ya got work for him tomorrow, I think?”

 

“I think we’ll always have work for His Highness,” the old Enforcer replied. “The Enforcers are grateful you’ve bent tradition, Serene Highness.”

 

“Traditional, I ain’t,” the sovereign said. “I’ll have’m back here bright ‘n early next ‘cycle. Ready to go, Prowl? The storm’s as rotten as earlier, got a feelin’ it’s gonna get worse.”

 

“I am ready,” the Praxian replied. “The worst storms of Praxus are perhaps not even as fierce as this. These next quartexes will be educational.”

 

Jazz grinned at that, the Rains did have a way of teaching caution and preparedness to those who did not show them adequate respect. So far the finishes used on both Praxians were holding up, though Prowl would be needing another coat on his doorwings to protect his Enfocer glyphs, especially considering the paint was not Polihexian in origin. Time would tell how well the finishes the Praxians wore would hold. Overall, their plating seemed more sensitive that Polihexians, and Jazz did not want to see Prowl, or his attendant hurt, especially unnecessarily. At least with the chamber attendant, Jazz knew someone other than himself would keeping an optic on these things for Prowl, the sovereign would not put it past him to forget touch ups, in favour of more important things.

 

T here was a  decent sized crowd in front of the precinct now, glyph had obviously spread of his presence. Eventually, Jazz thought he would trust his guard enough to escort Prowl without him, but there was nothing else that called for his urgent attention most early light-cycles, no reason not to come along,  so  until the Praxian complained, or until  Jazz  had state affairs to deal with,  he t hought he would play escort. It was the palace guard that were serving as crowd control,  though  those gathered seemed  respectful, the Polihexian Prince thought his guards looked a bit ha r ried.  They could not slip into their formation around the Sovereign and prince at the same time as they kept these excited mechnisms at a reason a ble distance. Back up arrived in the form of Enforcers, no doubt commed by  t hose  guarding the doors. The guardmech s relaxed,  and  one Jazz knew as Lightspeed pa tt ed the shoulder of one of the Enforcer  in a companionable way , as he thank ed the mechs for coming out and relieving them. No one in the crowd took advantage of the change. They cheered and waved. Nothing at all struck Jazz as out of place.

 

“Prince Prowl!” Nighbeat called, voice urgent. Jazz started to turn to see what was wrong, when he was tackled.

 

His back was hitting the ground with a splash a nanoklik later,  and Prowl landed on top of him as he used his frame to shield Jazz,  a t  the same time as laser fire rang. Jazz pushed up, intent to roll them and to shield Prowl bu t the Praxian  used his legs and arms to put him in a lose lock. Mechanisms screamed, and the sovereign could not see what was happening, could do nothing. Anger surged, but subsided  with the next ventilation . He stopped resisting. Laser fire, this time from maybe a few metres away answered the first blast in quick bursts. It was barely audible over the terrified screams. The whole incident could not have taken more than a  klik, but  the sovereign felt like he had been trapped under the  Praxian for a joor as acid rain seeped into his protofor m. F inally the screams faded, and it was suddenly, and completely silent.

 

Prowl pushed up on his arms slowly, looking around first before making optics contact with Jazz. The sovereign nodded once, and the Praxian climbed to his knees and then to his peds. He offered a servo to Jazz, who took it. When he was on his peds, Jazz looked over the scene. Well armoured Enforcers were streaming from the precinct, headed for the row of shops and habsuites across the street from them. The civilians who had not run were now climbing to their peds too, looking terrified, but so far as Jazz could see, no one among them looked to have been severely damaged. A few steps away, Nightbeat stood, surrounded by Enforcers, and a couple of the guards. A look of alarm lit up Prowl’s optics, and his doorwings flared. The prince relaxed almost immediately, and Jazz cocked his helm as they bith heard the glyphs of congratulations, and gratitude. Nightbeat looked over to his master and broke away from the Enforcers.

 

“You aren’t injured my... Lords?” He asked, quickly.

 

“I am not, are you, Jazz?” Prowl said, and he made his own inquiry.

 

“Nah, ‘m good,” Jazz replied. “Nightbeat, did you make the shot?”

 

“He did!” Lightspeed explained. “An amazing shot too.”

 

“Thank ya, Nightbeat,” the Polihexian Prince said. “Anyone hurt?”

 

“The shot hid the building behind you,” the guard explained, and he looped an arm around Nightbeat’s neck. Jazz and Prowl both turned to look at the precinct’s wall. “He only made one, this guy didn’t let him take another one.”

 

“Get these mechanisms outta the rain,” Jazz ordered both his guards and the Enforcers securing the scene, gesturing at the frightened crowd. “See if any of’em saw anythin’, ‘n give’em a chance to clean up, ‘n warm up. This’ll ‘o scared’em.”

 

“Do as he said,” the Praefectus direct his Enforcers as he jogged down the steps. “See if anyone was damaged in the chaos. Take everyone into the press room, barring injuries, and give them energon, and access to the washracks. The metaforensics officers will be on scene to question the witnesses one by one.”

 

Frightened, and wary, several of unintended witnesses balked at the Enforcers’ urging for them to enter the station. Jazz did not blame them. They would have wanted to go home, to see to any dents or scrapes,  to hug their loved ones, to weep . Speaking to Enforcers would be low on many of their lists of priorities. But it was important, the sovereign knew it, just as well as the Enforcers. Any amongst them could have scene something important, ev en if they did not realize it yet. Realizing that he could help, Jazz link his arm with Prowl’s and stepped over to where an Enforcer, who’s designation he did not know was trying to reassure an elderly Polihexian holding a young sparkling who was whimpering softly.

 

“Is the lil one hurt?” He asked. The elderly mech’s visor flashed almost white when he saw who was speaking to him.

 

“No, no, Serene Highness,” the mech replied, frazzled. “Scared is all. Lost his toy... I just want to find it.”

 

“Allow me, Sir,” Prowl said. He pulled, gently away from Jazz and stepped around the crime scene barricades being put into to place.

 

“Why don’tcha take the bitlet outta this slag ‘n warm up,” Jazz suggested. “They got warm energon comin’. Everyone’s had a real shock.”

 

“Whoever it was... he would’ve got you,” the old mech, said and he gestured at the wall. “I saw it. It went right through where you were standing... Thank Primus for your Amica, Serene Highness. I wasn’t sure, I’m an old mech, we’re so good at change, I wasn’t sure but I thought he should see and when I saw, well my shop’s just over there, I thought I’d take him to see a bit of history in the making.”

 

“’M a lucky mech,” the Polihexian Prince replied, and how true it was. His plating was prickly, not because of the acid rain that had gotten underneath, but because of the hyper awareness he was now feeling. “Will ya look at that, bitlet, looks like he found your sheepacron.”

 

“I wiped off what I could of the acid rain,” Prowl explained as he held it out to the sparkling, who snatched it up quickly and hugged it tight. Young as he was, the mechling had no idea who had rescued his beloved toy. He only cared that he had it back. Jazz’s lipplates pulled into a small smile.

 

“Thank you, Your Highness,” the shopkeeper said. “Thank His Highness, Tote.”

 

“Taoo,” the mechling chirred, looking up over his toy.

 

“You are welcome, Tote,” the Praxian replied. “Please see the Enforcers, inside, Sir. I am certain they will allow you and Tote to use the washracks first.”

 

“Thank you, yes, thank you,” the old mech said, he bowed deeply to both mechs, and went inside.

 

“You save my life,” Jazz said to his companion, once they were more or less alone.

 

“Nightbeat did,” Prowl corrected. “He saw light glint off the rifle spoke, and warned me in time.”

 

“He gets a raise,” the Polihexian replied. “Whatever he’s gettin’ paid, he’s gonna get some hazard pay. I wanted to cover ya... But ya knew that. Good lock.”

 

“You are the sovereign, Jazz” the prince said. “It will always be my place to guard you.”

 

“I ain’t ever gonna agree to that,” Jazz grumbled. He huffed a quick intake. “Just so we’re clear. I couldn’t disengage ya without hurtin’ ya ‘n makin’ a scene. I don’t want ya shot ‘n bleedin’ over me ‘cause ‘m ‘sposed to be more important.”

 

“You are more important,” Prowl replied, optics sage and steady.

 

“Pah,” the sovereign snorted, but thought better to argue the point. Obviously he would lose. “I need a shower myself. Got a bit’o rain under my plating.”

 

“You are not damaged?” the Praxian asked quickly. 

 

“Nah,” Jazz reassured him, and brushed his shoulder against his lover’s. “Just need to get it rinsed off. More guard are on the way. When they get here, we’ll go...”

 

“The ERT are coming back,” Nightbeat spoke up. 

 

“They do not appear to have the suspect detained,” Prowl observed.

 

“They shouldn’t,” the attendant said. “I killed him. My first shot got his spark.”

 

“You okay, Nightbeat?” The Polihexian asked, softly. 

 

“Ya,” Nightbeat replied. “Your Serene Highness, I’m okay. Feeling a bit jumpy but I’m okay. He would have killed you, or Prince Prowl. I’m okay he’s dead.”

 

“We’ll need metaforensics,” the ERT officer spoke softly to the Praefectus Vigilum. Not softly enough, however for Prowl and Jazz to not have heard. Prowl staightened his back and shifted his doorwings, and at the same time, Nighbeat’s drooped. 

 

“That’s Windmill’s shop,” the Praefectus Vigilum said. “He lives in habsuite above it.”

 

“He was at home when the unsub came it,” the officer explained. “Tarnian frame, he killed him first.”

 

“Damn,” the elderly Enforcer curse. “He was an odd spark, but harmless... Damn it.”

 

Jazz looked at Prowl, and then at the window where an Enforcer now stood. It was not enough that the slagtard had risked shooting someone in the crowd when he took a potshot at Jazz, but he had killed an innocent merchant just so he could use the mech’s home as his nest.  He could  have just tied up Windmill, as the Praefectus had called him, but he had murdered the mech instead. Tarnian... That complicated matters. Polihex and Tarn had very little to do with each other, there was no reason for them to sponsor an assassin. If  he had been an  O ps mech,  a real operative,  the mech had not been well trained. The fact that he had taken that shot, even after he had been spotted and the alarm raised, instead of escaping, told Jazz this thug was not on his level, and it felt unlikely that he was on Lord Shockwave’s payrol l,  t his meant he was probably a hired goon.  Which could only mean just about any mech or femme  might  have hired him,  and despite his inclination to look at Raisonne as the mastermind, Jazz knew better than to make blind accusations . Punch had told the twin Spymasters he thought enemies were plotting against  his creation , it looked like those enemies had made the first move.

 

End Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know. I know. I kept you waiting for a while. Writing has not been something I've had a ton of polish. Updates will be here and there, and they will be unpolished because I want to write more than edit! Ya, I'm lazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

It turned out Windmill had no family to notify of his murder. He had had a mate, millenia ago but had lost him during one of the wars with Uraya, and something in the tinkerer had been broken by the loss. Since losing his Conjunx Endura Windmill had devoted himself to inventing better and better radar, and laser weaponry, a tribute to the mate he had lost to Seeker mercenaries. Some of his invention were in active use within Polihex’s army, many more still had blown up in his face, resulting in numerous visits to his shop by the Enforcers over the vorns, and this was why the Praefectus was familiar with him. After the last block shaking explosion, the Praefectus had read the mech the riot act, no more explosions, or no shop. Over the last thousand stellar-cycles or so, Windmill had quieted down, none of his inventions had exploded in ages. The Enforcers had not visited, or worried about him in just as long, and now he was dead because he had the misfortune of having a shop and habsuite across the street from Enforcer Command.

 

It all left a bitter taste on Jazz’s glossa. The slagtard had killed one of his mechanisms, could easily have killed anyone in the crowd, could have easily killed Prowl, in order to get to him. A part of the Polihexian regretted that Nightbeat had killed the cogsucker, he would have liked to have had the chance to sit in on his interrogation, one that would have been performed by the Spymasters, not the Enforcers. But the mech was dead, and there would be an autopsy, not an interrogation, and that Jazz would leave to the experts. As he waited for his guards to arrive, he walked among the witnesses gathered together in the precinct’s press room. He had taken a quick shower, to get the worst of the acid residue off his protoform. His plating, or rather his protoform still itched, though acid residue was less to blame than his own heightened awareness, and helplessness. Restless as he was, Jazz served energon, handed out polishing clothes, reassured the witnesses as they waited for the Enforcers to make their rounds, and did what he could to keep them from going stir crazy, along with himself, before it was their turn for the metaforensics officers to come and to ask their questions

 

Prowl was not walking with him. Jazz had not asked him to, and he did not think it was really something the Praxian would have been comfortable doing. Beyond that, Prowl was doing what he was clearly meant to do, he was working with the Enforcers. He had gone with the metaforensics officers over to the scene, along with three of the guards who were tasked with keeping an optic out for further danger, but also staying the ever loving Pit out of the way of the investigators. The prince had, of course, not been the target of the Tarnian assassin, that had been Jazz, and maybe what was bothering Jazz the most was that he had not spotted the danger himself. There had been no guards, or Enforcers, or chamber attendants watching his back in Uraya or Kalis, or any other Pit he had ever found himself, and it was deeply disturbing that he had almost been killed on his own turf.

 

“Serene Highness!” Jazz was jerked from his dour thoughts by the loud call. An Enforcer with blue and white plating looked at him, just a little nervously. The other Enforcers present gave him exacerbated looked.

 

“What’s up?” the sovereign asked, forcing himself to relax. He almost smiled at how oblivious the mech was to his own lack of volume control.

 

“The guard are here...” The mech explained, maybe a decimal or two quieter. “A dozen at least!”

 

“Tell’em I ain’t done just yet,” Jazz said, and he collected another couple of cubes, and made his way to another pair of anxious mechanisms. This gave him something to focus on, something to do, rather than feeling impotent, and useless.

 

As witnesses were released, Jazz ordered guardmechs to escort them home. They were in no danger now, the long time saboteur was confident of that, but it would make them feel safe, and by the looks on their faceplates, his hunch had been spot on. He was never without guards, and those not escorting mechanisms home, on their on eventually began to follow his lead, comforting the witnesses still waiting to be interviewed. They were all careful, by order of the Enforcers to stay away from questioning these mechanisms, the metaforensics officers did not want their testimony to get distorted. They would have preferred the witnesses all be completely separated and kept from speaking until they could be questioned but after what they had seen, given the number of witnesses, they had not much choice but to adapt.

 

Jazz looked over the crowd remaining and caught side of a couple that looked just a little more distressed than the rest of the witnesses. In fact, they looked to be on the verge of having an argument. Thinking that a couple of cubes could just maybe soothe raw circuits, the sovereign trotted down the aisle to the back of the room where the two were sitting. When Jazz got a little closer he realized these were a mech and a femme. The burgundy and teal mech had a Polihexian frame, but yellow faceplates that, like they did Nightbeat, suggested a Urayan ancestor. His femme companion was a diminutive mechanism with a scarlet and gold paint job, and she looked about ready to kill. At first, Jazz thought they might just need to be separated, but at second glance he realized that the femme was only looking out at the room murderously, when her optics shifted to her companion, she just looked concerned. Their hushed argument stopped altogether when they saw who was approaching.

 

“Thought ya like a couple of cubes,” he said, saving them from trying to figure out how they were supposed to greet their sovereign in this rather unique setting.

 

“Thank you,” The femme replied. Though the cubes were large, comparatively speaking due to her size, she took both, pausing to add a small cube of condensed minerals to one before passing it over to her partner. He gave her a look of fond exacerbation. She scowled, or tried to and said: “Drink it, Joyride.”

 

“I couldn’t help but see ya two are feelin’ a bit frayed,” Jazz explained. “Did ya get a chance to use the washracks, or see one of the medics?”

 

“We’re fine,” the mech referred to as Joyride insisted. “Hotwire’s just a bit overprotective.”

 

“He’s _carrying,_ ” Hotwire revealed, and she looked at her partner with very real worry. “And he’s been having ticks for the last two joors while we’ve just been _sitting_ here.”

 

“I’ve been having prodromal ticks off and on for a quartex,” Joyride countered. “They don’t mean anything, medic said as much.”

 

“That was before he fell on your chassis!” the femme hissed. She could not have been more than half her mate’s size but she had more than enough personality to make up for the lack of height.”

 

“Why don’t ya give me a nanoklik,” the sovereign said.

 

Though the originator to be was calm, Jazz guess he was scared too , but with his mate on edge, he may have been afraid to feed her fear with his own. It may have been nothing but the desire to not hassle the investigators . That was fine, the monochrome Polihexian  would make a hassle for them . H e bypassed the metaforensics  mechanisms busy interviewing other witnesses, and found the Praefectus Vigilum just outside the press room, speaking with a pair of Enforcers. When Jazz approached, he dismissed his Enforcers, and turned his attention to his Prince. Being the boss had its perks, the sovereign had to admit, and he would not feel guilty for using them, no in moments like this.

 

“How can I help you, Serene Highness?” The old Enforcer asked.

 

“We’ve got a mech in there that might be in early emergence,” Jazz explained. “He’s not fussin’ but he’s mate’s just about ready to crack helms. Think ya could get a medic to take a look, make sure he’s good to move, ‘n then an escort to the medicentre?”

 

“Lightspeed, find Medic Bump, please,” the Praefectus Vigilum ordered the Enforcer Jazz recognized off the two just dismissed. “His Serene Highness will take him to his patient.”

 

“Yes, Sir!” The Enforcer said, with a salute, and raced off to find the medic.

 

“When he returns with Bump, Lightspeed can ask the expecting couple to visit the station later if they remember anything that strikes them as important,” the Enforcer Commander suggested. “I would hazard a guess that they aren’t thinking of anything but that newspark.”

 

“That’s what I was thinkin’,” the Prince replied. “Didn’t want to run roughshod o’er yer investigation.”

 

“I appreciate your restraint, Serene Highness,” the Praefectus Vigilum said. “I was surprised that you chose to stay.”

 

“I need to move,” Jazz explained, shrugging his shoulders. “I spent my life watchin’ my own back ‘n the first time someone was actually out to kill me, I didn’t spot’m, that don’t sit well with me.”

 

“My Enforcers didn’t spot him either, neither did the guards,” the old mech replied. “I believe we were lucky, and that is _very_ unsettling.”

 

“Ya, it is,” the young Polihexian agreed. “My Spymasters’ll be comin’ ‘round to see the frame, for their own investigation. Don’t mean I don’t think your Enforcers can’t do their job. If this slagtard was an op, odds are they’ll know, ‘n if he was, this’ll be there business.”

 

“I will assist however I can,” the Praefectus Vigilum promised. “You’ll find I’m not territorial.”

 

“I am,” Jazz replied. “He killed one of my mechanisms, ‘n tryin’ to kill me, he put a whole lotta others in danger. I wanna know who paid him, since I get go into the Pit to get my servos ‘round his neck.”

 

“It strikes me that it would be easy to blame Tarn, due to his frametype,” the Enforcer Commander said. “Much too easy.”

 

“That’s my thinkin’,” the younger mech replied, and it pleased him, really pleased him that the Praefectus was not easily fooled. It would bode well for the quality of his investigators. “Ya know, it occurs to me, I just keep callin’ ya, thinkin’ of ya as Praefectus... I don’t know yer designation.”

 

“Calculus,” the mech revealed with a chuckle. “No one uses it, my friends refer to me as The Praefectus. Only my Conjunx Endura, Backburner, calls me Calculus.”

 

“Glad to have ya on board, Calculus,” Jazz said. The designation struck him as being suited to a researcher, and educator, and it did not surprise him that most of the mechanisms he knew tied his rank, one that would have been earned by millenia of devotion to the Enforcers. His mate would have seen him as considerably more than that duty.

 

“Praefectus, Sir,” Lightspeed called as he jogged up. “I have Medic Bump.”

 

“Thank you,” Calculus said. “Medic Bump, Lightspeed, escort His Serene Highness to the witnesses. If the expectant originator can travel safely, escort him to Central Polihex Medicentre for a thorough assessment.”

 

“Understood,” the medic replied. “Soon-to-be progenitors can be paranoid, but this femme has good reason to be.”

 

“This way,” Jazz said, and he led the mech and the Enforcer into the press room, and up to Hotwire and Joyride. “Hope ya don’t mind, Joyride, I brought Medic Bump here to take a look at ya, just to be safe.

 

The relief that filled Hotwire’s field was thick enough to taste. Joyride nodded his helm, and let the medic access his diagnostic port. He had been trying hard to keep his helm, but just like his mate, the originator-to-be was  indeed very scared. His servo was under his chassis,  over his foge . If the bitlet had been harmed, Jazz thought he might have to end the one responsible himself. It should already have felt personal, he had been the target, after all, but this felt more personal. An innocent couple, an innocent newspark, that was personal to the sovereign. These were his mechanisms,  they were not collateral damage .

 

“The ticks are regular enough that I think it would be wise to visit the medicentre,” Bump declared. “The newspark’s strong, no sign of distress at all. This is more of a precaution. I’ll escort you.”

 

“Please,” Hotwire replied. “Just to be safe, Joyride?”

 

“Yah, let’s be safe,” Joyride agreed.

 

“Enforcer Lightspeed will escort the three of you to CPM,” Jazz said. “When y’er feelin’ steadier, if ya remember anything important, ‘bout what happened out there. Come by the station. But right now, yer family’s more imporatant.”

 

“Thank you, Serene Highness,” the expectant originator replied. “We just dropped when we heard the screams... I didn’t see anything, except the ground.”

 

“That’s fine,” the sovereign said. “Take good care of’em, Medic Bump.”

 

“Yes, Serene Highness,” the medic promised.

 

J azz watched them go, and with them some of his obsessive need for movement went s well . He looked around and found the last of the witnesses were being interviewed, soon they would be on their way home, under escort of guards.  It would be over for them, apart from the memory fluxes. By the next light-cycle interviews between some of them and members of the media will be all over Polihex’s datanet. Whoever had hired the cogsucker would learn soon enough that he had failed. The question would then have to be, when would, where would the next attempt be? If the slagtard behind it all was Raisonne or Turbofire, the sovereign knew damn well there would be another attempt. But if it was a foreign entity, or a disgruntled party within Polihex, Jazz could not say if this might not just be a one off. He doubted that though , and though he had been the target this time, would he still be the next? Or would they strike at the masses, or would they strike at Prowl?

 

“Prowl,” Jazz started when he saw the Praxian venture into the press room, and he made his way over.

 

“You did not return to the palace,” Prowl observed.

 

“No, needed to do somethin’,” the Polihexian replied. “So I stayed. Were ya lookin’ for me?”

 

“The guard directed me here,” the prince explained. “I have contributed what I can, and was strongly cautioned to return before joor was too late.”

 

“Then we can head home together,” Jazz said. “A real shower ‘n some warm energon sounds like a plan.”

 

“You were not damaged by the acid?” Prowl asked.

 

“I feel itchy,” the sovereign explained. “’N part o’ that’s just that ‘m edgy, but I probably need to scrub some gunk outta my protoform.”

 

“I will assist,” the Praxian said, and then amended. “If that is what you wish.”

 

“Please,” Jazz replied. They were alone in the press room, and it was this observation that made the Polihexian comfortable enough to reach out. He took Prowl’s servo in his, and drew him close so they stood shoulder to shoulder. The idea that this mech would be the next target would not leave his helm, targeted because his own originator had traded him to Jazz, to Polihex for a pittance, as punishment for existing. It was considerably more vile a thought than that of Jazz himself being targeted.“That’d be great. Y’re ready to go?”

 

“It is disquieting to leave when the investigation is only in its infancy but there metaforensics officers are capable,” Prowl admitted. To the sovereign’s relief, the Praxian did not seem to mind being close, or having his servo held... He may well have minded, but Jazz clung to the thought that maybe he really did not mind, not when they were alone at least. “When they have gathered all their evidence, I will process it all myself.”

 

“Ya’d rather keeping investigating,” the Polihexian said, and he wondered if he should not leave the Praxian at the station, to work until he was satisfied. The thought made him uneasy, though there was no real reason. Sooner or later some other slagtard would take a shot, but not this dark-cycle, no with the Enforcers on alert. Prowl just shrugged his doorwings.

 

“They have, or we have skilled investigators,” he replied. “My continued presence is not needed, and in this instance could well serve as a distraction. Rather, my position is best suited for consultation. I am your Official Amica Endura first.”

 

“My lover,” Jazz corrected, and the Praxian cocked his helm slightly, along with his doorwings. The sovereign smiled, trying to keep his nervousness under-wraps. “You’re my lover, my friend... let’s just... let’s just skip the title, least between the two of us.”

 

He feared Prowl would balk, not from the glyph of lover, but from the suggestion that calling him that in any way ameliorated his sorry situation. For a nanoklik the Praxian was still, his optics downcast, though not in shame,  but rather in thought.  Jazz started to worry, as Prowl stayed still and quiet for ne a rly a full klik.  Then, slowly,  the prince linked his digits with Jazz’s , and when  Prowl lifted his helm he was smiling. Relief, and gratitude slipped into Prowl’s field, tangible enough that the Polihexian wondered how strong the mech must have felt th is in his spark. He smiled back.  Maybe it  was just a glyph, but it was the right one. 

 

“I think I would prefer to be your lover,” Prowl said. “Perhaps it is foolish, but the semantics feel vastly different.”

 

“They feel different to me too,” the Polihexian replied. It was not the same as removing the title altogether. Courtiers, Enforcers, the media, Polihexians at large would refer to Prowl as the Official Amica Endura, that was what he was to them. But between them, and those closest to them, that title would not be spoken. Jazz did not feel like it was enough, but it was a start, and it would do for now.

 

Guards, and with them Nightbeat, were patiently waiting as Jazz and Prowl left the press room. There were two dozen of them, and the Polihexian briefly wondered if there were any remaining at the palace, though of course there were. Captain Gripper stepped forward, and bowed his helm. It would have rattled him, Jazz realized, that none of the guards he had trained had spotted the threat, and the captain would have felt compelled to lead the escort.  The Polihexian had the feeling training would be the theme of the Rains, and if by chance this was not the captain’s plan now, Jazz would see to it that it was soon. Not only the guards would be working on their awareness, but the former saboteur planned to put himself through his paces. He may have been Sovereign Prince, but if Jazz wanted to live to be crowned, or very long after, he would need to remember his life’s training, he could not be complacent.

 

“A’ight, let’s go,” Jazz said, and the guard closed around him and Prowl as they walked for the door.

 

The Rain came down as heavy and hard as it had joors earlier, and the royals and guards drove through the largely empty streets as the fastest speed they could safely drive in such a close conglomeration in such slippery road conditions. Everyone of them was on high alert, Jazz, Prowl and Nightbeat were just as watchful. There were no crowds waiting for their return to the palace gates, more guards stood sentry, with much of the road closest off to pedestrian and vehicle traffic. In the coming mega-cycles, this state of high security would fade to normal, but for now the guard, and the citizens of Polihex were coming to terms with the fact that they had come close to losing their monarch, and added security was par for the course. Jazz thought it would probably bother him more than anyone else. It would be difficult, and that much more irresponsible, to slip off on his own in this climate. He hoped he did not suffocate under it all.

 

“Nightbeat, thanks again for saving my aft,” Jazz said as they transformed and entered the Palace. “Get some engex, maybe some company... I’ll take care of your master for the dark-cycle.”

 

“Okay,” Nightbeat nodded, a little dully. “I mean, thank you, Serene Highness.”

 

H e was rattled. The fact he had killed a mech was crashing down on him. Nighbeat was far from home, far from those he would lean on. Before Jazz could suggest one of the guard lend him some support,  Captain Flak appeared, strolled up to the colourful Praxian, and looked a companionable arm around his shoulders, and herded him off. One thing the palace staff, guards and servants alike could be counted on was taking care of their own. It had not taken Flak or the other off duty guards running to catch up to adopt Nightbeat, even though his position, on its surface, was quite different from theirs, as one of their own.  Tracks’ first impression of the chamber attendant had been a ways off. Nightbeat tried to be serious, and professional, but he was young and eager,  and a little naive .  Taking a life, in defence or otherwise would be difficult for him to process. Jazz released a long vent.

 

“We should see to your frame, before much longer,” Prowl suggested as they watched Nightbeat disappear around the corner.

 

“Yah, I think y’er right there,” Jazz agreed. Without the witnesses, and the activity to distract him, the Polihexian really felt the prickle of hidden bits of acid residue on his back and shoulders that had not been washed away during his quick shower. “My suite then.”

 

They walked the not so short distance to the Polihexian’s suite. The silence was brimming with tension, though not precisely between them. Windmill’s murder, the assassination attempt, both weighed heavily on the mechs’ processors. It would be orns before any of it faded. Despite the dangers of his passed profession, Jazz had never lost a friend, or his originator to their murky world. He had not yet been crowned and one of his citizens had been killed in order to get to him, some mech had already taken a shot at him, and the sovereign was faced with the unsettling reality that it was only the first, and the grimmer truth that there were very real odds that he would never identify the Tarnian’s patron. Not knowing, Jazz realized was worse than any betrayal.

 

“I got most of it,” he explained when they arrived at his suit. The Polihexian walked directly to his personal waskracks, as Prowl followed. “Couldn’t get all o’ it out of my joints wit out takin’ off my armour, ‘n I wasn’t cool wit doin’ that at the precinct.”

 

“It will be easier for me than you to clean out any residue,” Prowl said. “You have brushes, I presume?”

 

“In the shower,” Jazz replied. “Thanks for the help, Prowl.”

 

It was more unnerving that he had expected to strip off his armour with the other mech present, especially seeing as that mech remained fully armoured. Jazz swallowed his discomforted and drop the last of his armour in one corner of the shower. He would scrub it clean before he put it back, just in case it was hiding any acid slag. Before Jazz activated the spray, he adjusted the temperature, while he liked his showers scalding, the sovereign did not want to assume his Praxian companion did as well. Prowl made no comment, in fact he was keeping especially quiet. His processor may well have still been on his investigation, or he may well have been uncomfortable with Jazz’s state of undress, despite the necessity of it. Had he had more energy, the Polihexian might have tried to draw some conversation out of Prowl, but his own processor was consumed with thought, and he found himself at a loss for glyphs.

 

***

 

Jazz was troubled. This observation was hardly unexpected, and hardly one that required the ATS’ deductive powers. It could not have been easy to know that an attempt had been made on his life, that he had been the one guarded, rather than the one to chase down the threat. The Polihexian was not a mech who wanted to be on the sidelines, he very clearly preferred to be a part in the fray. Prowl thought it was to his credit that he had accepted the reality of his station and had allowed Prowl to shield him, though with considerable reluctance. Neither had said anything on it yet, but the Praxian prince had felt the other mech’s rage, some him, some at the shooter, and some at himself. He had teeked the force of the mech’s disgust at his own helplessness, and saw in the line of the mech’s mandible his decision to grit his denta and bare it.

 

It had been a trying dark-cycle. There would be Pit to pay in the light-cycle; Prowl knew perfectly well that Jazz was not going to leave the investigation to the Enforcers. Assassinations were very much the realm of spies and shadows, and the sovereign’s operatives were likely already putting their feelers out. They would no doubt feel scandalized that an attempt on Jazz’s life had been made, and they had not had been unaware of any plot beforehand. Prowl suspected the sovereign would be wrist deep in the counterintelligence investigation, and he could not say what about that made him uneasy, perhaps the reminder that the Polihexian was not a natural aristocrat was what did not sit well, the reminder that Jazz was a trained operative, more naturally than he was a sovereign... What would Veneer think?

 

No. Prow would not think of his procreator, and he would not hold Jazz to a standard he himself did not wish to be held to. He who had emerged into privilege, and had found purpose and identity in the Enforcers could hardly fault the Polihexian Prince Regnant for turning to the training and the function he had served before he had been wrench from it, and thrown into politics and power. Based on what he knew of Jazz, based on how Jazz had treated him, the prince thought the mech was probably racked with guilt over the death of Windmill. For all Jazz had not emerged to his role, he had accepted the responsibility, and had claimed the citizens of Polihex as his. Which meant the former spy would take the murder of one, by either outside or inside plotters very personally.

 

The fact that the Polihexian made no attempt at conversation told Prowl everything he needed to know, Jazz was suffering, and it was his duty, not simply because of that title, but because he was the one present, to if not comfort, and perhaps unburden. Of course, the problem there was that the Praxian was not especially good at comforting, or even your most basic emotional support. His brothers had learned to take what they needed, to wheedle it out as they needed, they did not rely on Prowl to say the right thing, but Jazz would not know to, Jazz would not feel entitled to do so either. In truth Prowl wished for comfort himself. The laser had passed not so far above his doorwings, he had not had so much time to spare. If the Praxian had not see the assassin immediately after his attendant’s cry, he may not have gotten to Jazz in time. It was a haunting thought.

 

Selfish as it was to be relieved for his own benefit, it was simply the truth that he was. Prowl would lose everything he had gained in Polihex if anything happened to Jazz, and that he had even come this close was distressing. The Praxian fell back on his Diffusion training and mentally recited the tenets until his spark and his processor quieted. He gently worked the cloth in his servo around the normally hidden structures of Jazz’s back, and shoulders. Where the cloth would not work, the prince used the shower spray, at low pressure, to clean all traces of acid and debris from this companion’s protoform. As he worked, the task of washing Jazz became meditative, and in a sense, comforting. When Prowl wiped the residue out of the Polihexian’s knee joints, it served to remind him that Jazz had come through the attack unharmed, and for this bream that was enough. When the light-cycle came, Prowl would work to uncover who the assassin was, who had hired him, for now he would focus on Jazz.

 

“I believe that is everything,” Prowl said as he climbed his his peds. Jazz turned to face him.

 

“Feels a lot better,” he replied, tired as he clearly was, he managed a smile. “Thank ya. Y’er sure y’er good?”

 

“I am,” the Praxian assured.

 

“Thank frag,” Jazz said, with a vent. He was still troubled, and Prowl had finally come to a conclusion as to what was bothering him the most.  Anger rippled in his field though guilt overpowered it as Jazz watched Prowl with, visor bright. The force of his stare made the Praxian mildly uneasy. He could not read the Polihexian’s visor, but he could read is lipplates. Jazz set his mandible, and rolled his shoulders.

 

“You realize I know you are angry with me,” Prowl said, after the uneasy silence broke him.

 

“I don’t want to be angry wit ya,” the sovereign replied, scowling. “Ya saved my sorry aft.”

 

“You said yourself, you would have preferred to be protecting me,” the Praxian said. “Instead of being pinned, and helpless. You are used to being self-sufficient.”

 

“Ya mighta been killed protectin’ me, I don’t want that on my helm,” Jazz revealed. “Anyone for that matter... Y’re right, I hated bein’ helpless, ‘n not knowin’ for certain if ya were leakin’ to death on top of me, ‘cause I didn’t see a slagtard with a rifle pointed at me.”

 

“Only Nightbeat did,” Prowl reminded him.

 

“That’s the sort of slag ‘m supposed to notice, Prowl,” the Polihexian replied. “Don’t step into the open til ya know it’s clear. Survival 101, ‘n ‘m already gettin’ pampered ‘n soft. ‘N I hate it.”

 

“Polihex is not an enemy fortress you have infiltrated,” the prince replied as he came to understand more the source of Jazz’s frustration and anger. “Did you live every moment in Uraya or Kalis expecting death was around the corner?”

 

“No, no,” Jazz replied. “My origin, sure. Me... No, I just lived.”

 

“As you do here,” Prowl said. He leaned in, and touched his crest to Jazz’s helm. “I see no fault in that.”

 

“Mm,” the sovereign hummed, and he reached up and cupped Prowl’s faceplates, sending a startling bolt of warmth into the Praxian’s spark. “I guess that’s right... What is this?”

 

“Something akin to a hug,” the Praxian replied. “Doorwings do not allow for tight embraces.”

 

“I like it,” Jazz said. “’N I needed it. Worst thing ‘bout bein’ trapped under ya was not knowing if ya were hurt. That’s what made me angry. I hate the thought ya could be hurt, for bein’ stuck here with me. Y’re gonna be a target now, guess it was always a risk, but ya just showed that scrapheap’s master ya can ‘n ya will get in his or her way. Nightbeat ain’t gonna be yer only guard now. Coupla Enforcers, coupla guardmechs. Ya ain’t gonna be an easy target for the next slagtard.”

 

“I will comply,” Prowl promised. It was the logical response to the tangible threat. The idea that Jazz was upset because he had put himself in harm’s way to protect him made his spark flutter. He might have stepped back, ended the embrace but Jazz’s servos remained on his faceplates, and in truth, he did not wish to pull away. The last of his own distress faded as he took comfort in the sovereign’s touch. “You will have your own contingent, at all times?”

 

“Yah, ya don’t need to reason wit me,” the Polihexian said. “Even if y’re too polite to nag me ‘bout it, Tracks ain’t.”

 

“I am pleased to hear that,” the prince replied, his shoulders and doorwings actually sagged. “Exceedingly so.”

 

 

Prowl wanted to kiss Jazz, kiss him senseless, to distract himself from the course of his thoughts. It had been rattling, to see the rifle, and to know he was the only one close enough, or fast enough to take Jazz out of harms way. There had been a moment when he had feared that he could not move fast enough, that Jazz would die, and what then? So long as the sovereign lived, Prowl’s future was as secure as it was likely to be, but without him, the Enforcer prince could not think of the possibility without risking a crash. Stricken from the list of princes or no, if Jazz died the court would almost certainly recall Ricochet, Prowl absolutely could not risk ruminating about that possibility. Even if the Polihexian loathed the idea, the Praxian knew with absolute certainty that he would leap into the path of any threat against his lover; his life was forfeit without him. But Jazz was not dead, and Prowl told himself to focus on this, focus on the touch of the mech’s servos on his faceplates.

 

“I need to clean up my armour,” Jazz said, slipping his servos from Prowl’s faceplates and taking a step back. “If there ain’t already energon waiting for us in the sittin’ room think ya could call some over?”

 

“I will,” Prowl said, and he stepped out of the shower and quickly dried off.

 

As Jazz must have suspected there would be, energon, crystals and engex were waiting on the low table in front of the Polihexian’s lounge. There was no note to suggest who had called for it, but prince suspected the viceroy was responsible. The mech was an attentive servant, or played the part of one, and he appeared absolutely loyal to Jazz. In truth, Tracks unnerved Prowl to an unpleasant degree. He had more influence in the court that even Jazz, though that was changing. Where Tracks stood with Ricochet, where he stood with the contract, with Veneer, the Praxian did not know, and as a result, Prowl had no real idea where he might stand with the viceroy. If Tracks wished to help, or to hurt Prowl’s position, he had the power to do either, it was a deeply unsettling idea.

 

Thankfully Prowl had little time to dwell on it as Jazz joined him a few kliks later. To the Praxian’s optics, the mech looked much like himself, though certainly not his happiest. Offering Prowl a smile, he sat next to the subordinate prince and took a cube of energon for himself, and offered the other to Prowl. While Jazz taking engex would not have particularly perturbed the Praxian, it was a bit of a relief to see him choose real fuel over the intoxicant. Prowl accepted his own cube and took a long drink. His fuel levels were well below optimum, though it would not be anywhere close to the first time. He had fuelled with the Praefectus during his shift with the Enforcers, but that had been considerably earlier in the mega-cycle.

 

“Guess it was too much to hope they might wait a stellar-cycle or two before trying to slag me,” Jazz said as he finished his cube. “My origin’s been sniffin’ out some foreign enemy, but honestly I don’t know how much stock I put in it. There’s usually good intel mixed in with his paranoia but he’s taken a leap.”

 

“He is afraid for you,” Prowl replied.

 

“My origin’s got a bit o’ a quirk,” the Polihexian explained. “His alt-mode’s sorta a second personality ‘n he ain’t the nicely mech. The longer Origin spends as Counter-Punch, the more lost he gets in his conspiracies. My old bosses say he’s been hangin’ as Counter-Punch for a while... Maybe since I left.”

 

“So you worry for him,” the prince said. “You have tried to reach him I presume.”

 

“He don’t do comms, don’t trust them, I sent a cube to one of his hangouts, might be awhile before he gets it,” Jazz replied. “I want him to come here, but since some slagtard tried to kill me while I was a bitlet, he’s twitchy, real twitchy in Polihex ‘n I ain’t gonna ask it of him.”

 

“You are a good creation,” Prowl said.

 

“I try,” the sovereign said with small smile. “’N ‘M tryin’ to be a good Prince but I don’t know. What I wanna do, it ain’t necessarily what’s best for Polihex. Don’t know if ‘m ever gonna be able to ignore my spark ‘n just go with my processor.”

 

“What decision is troubling you?” The Praxian asked.

 

“I found out my ‘genitor had a coupla consorts before Raisonne,” Jazz explained. “He dismissed’em ‘n tonsured ‘em when neither o’em gave’m an heir. He was in a bit o’ a competition with Prince Seizer o’ Uraya, since neither of‘em had a creation, pretty long into their reigns. ‘Genitor was with his first consort for two million stellar-cycles ‘n the poor mech miscarried o’er ‘n o’er. Finally my ‘genitor dismissed ‘m, locked him in a monastary ‘n took another consort. That mech miscarried too, got locked up too. Fraggin’ Pit. Just ‘cause he had the right to, he shouldn’tve done it. Just ‘cause he needed an heir. He could let his consort rest for a few vorns, instead o’ sparkin’ ‘m up o’er ‘n o’er with any rest. His Official Amica didn’t spark, never, maybe he was sneakin’ contraceptives... who knows. ‘Genitor was gonna dismiss Raisonne too, was fightin’ for it in court ‘til Raissone turned out to be sparked... No wonder the council ‘n the court fought ‘m all the time, he treated their brothers like fragtoys he could throwaway when he was done.”

 

“I would argue that his decisions were not the best for Polihex,” Prowl said. “He might have selected another lover, he might have dismissed his consorts without tonsuring them, either decision would have gone over better with his advisors and the clans. What is it you wish to do that you fear repercussions from?”

 

“I ordered Tracks to find out if Trip-Up ‘n Jackpot were still locked up in the temples,” the Polihexian revealed. “I told‘m to let’em out if they are. It might make their families happy, it might stir up old wounds. ‘N frag Turbofire ‘n Raissone’s clan, if either o’ the mechs wanna rejoin the court, ain’t a problem for me.”

 

“Such a deed will might cause some momentary fervour but I believe their families will react warmly enough to their return from exile,” the prince replied. “If Turbofire is foolish enough to argue, he will make enemies of their clans. That could be problematic but I imagine he would bite his glossa quickly enough. Had Raissone remained in court, more drama could be expected, but I understand he retired to his clanlands.”

 

“That’s right,” Jazz said. “He went on his own, I didn’t have to ask’m ‘n I woulda had to, sooner or later. Not just ‘cause he’s gotta be sore o’er Ric losin’ the throne, but because there’s a real likelihood he’s the one that tried to kill me when I was a bitlet.”

 

“It would be difficult to recharge with him under the same roof,” Prowl noted.

 

“Frag, yes,” the Poliexian agreed. “Only reason I even figured out ‘bout Trip-Up ‘n Jackpot was ‘cause I was lookin’ at some ole datapads ‘n ran into my ‘genitor’s dirty secret... Not even Tracks knew much ‘o anythin’ ‘bout them. He ain’t much older than me, ‘n no mechanism ‘round here felt safe to talk ‘bout it. Apparently my ‘genitor just ‘bout outlawed their designations. Makes me wonder what other secrets he’s worried. What’m I gonna have blow up in my faceplates next?”

 

“I am sorry, Jazz,” the prince said. He almost shared his secret, but the glyphs would not leave his glossa. There was too much to lose. Raisonne would not hesitate to reveal his glitch if Ricochet’s crimes were revealed. Even if Jazz forgave Prowl’s defect, the court would not. They would never tolerate a flawed mech as originator to their heirs. The Praxian had to accept that this secret would only ever rot in his spark, he would never be free of it.

 

“Better to learn the truth now, I guess,” Jazz replied, tiredly. “Ain’t got too many joors left before yer next shift, plannin’ on headin’ in on time?”

 

“I am comfortable with the erratic joors of Enforcer investigations,” Prowl said. “A few joors recharge will be enough for now. I will make up for it later.”

 

“Share them with me?” The sovereign asked. “I know I don’t wanna be on my own, ‘n I don’t think I want ya outta reach either.”

 

“I would be pleased to,” the Praxian replied, and it was the truth, the tired smile he received for his acceptance was pleasing too, and Prowl offered one of his own.

 

Jazz led the way to his berth, and allowed Prowl to choose the side he preferred, the side closest to the door. Despite the fact that the shock of the assassination attempt had begun to bleed away, his guard was heightened and the Praxian was considerably more comfortable with the idea of recharging knowing his doorwings to the door so that they might feel any intruder’s presence before he/she could get far, even if he was in recharge. Without complaint, his companion, his lover claimed the other side of the berth, and settled in, facing him. As Prowl laid down, he realized the berth had changed since he had last been in it. The mattress had more give, not that it had been too unpleasantly firm before. Like the new pad in the prince’s own suite, this one was now Praxian in style. He stretched out, and the memory foam melded to his frame, and his helm found the pillows.

 

“You need not have,” Prowl said, a whisper of tiredness showing in his voice as soft static.

 

“I like my berths soft,” Jazz replied. “This is nice, real nice, ‘n it’s nice to know ya aren’t gonna leave it with your frame achin’.”

 

“If you find you dislike it...” he said.

 

“If I ain’t comfortable, I won’t suffer it,” the Polihexian promised, and he shifted along the berth until he was chassis to chassis with Prowl. Jazz sat up a little, leaned over and kissed the prince softly. Prowl reached up his servo, cupping the other’s neck as he happily returned the kiss. Prowl did not kiss Jazz senseless, though the temptation was still there. Rather, it ended quickly instead, the fast approaching light-cycle left no time for pleasure. Prowl returned his helm to his pillows and offlined his optics. As he cycled down to recharge, he felt Jazz’s servo come to rest on his side, and heard the other mech’s tired vent. Just before recharge could claim him, Prowl reached out and draped his arm over his berth partner’s side. Finally, they both dropped into recharge.

 

End Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

Prowl woke from recharge when it was still dark. Three joors was by no means even close to the ideal number of joors of recharge, but the memory purge had jolted him awake, and experience had taught him it would take joors to settle his processor, and his spark down again. So with a soft vent, the Praxian started to slide back on the berth, out from under Jazz’s servo. That servo curled tight over his side, and he paused. The Polihexian stretch out his arm, and drew Prowl back in. He had not intended to wake the other mech, and he opened his mouth, about to apologize, when Jazz pulled him in for a long, slow kiss. With a soft sound of surprise, muffled by the sovereign’s lips, Prowl returned the kiss, and deepened it. Whatever traces of the memory purge that had lingered upon the Praxian waking were banished as he tasted his companion, his lover. They slipped apart, Jazz moving first, but he did not go far. When Prowl dropped his helm back onto the pillows, the Polihexian followed, and leaned in to rest his forehelm against Prowl’s chevron.

 

“I had one to,” he said, brilliant visor illuminating his faceplates. There was a half smile on his lipplates. “Thought ‘bout gettin’ up, felt better stayin’.”

 

“I am glad you stayed,” Prowl replied. He was comforted and comfortable in the other mech’s presence. It was not intentional but as he relaxed against Jazz, his processor and spark settled, and before he noticed, recharge crept up and he slipped back offline.

 

Alpha Centaurii had nearly risen when Prowl woke again, still cuddled up to Jazz. Cuddling, it was not something the prince had ever thought he might enjoy but he did like being close to the other mech, close enough to feel the hum of his systems through their armour plating. He had affection for this mech, more than he had expected to develop, especially so quickly. Maybe it should have been embarrassing to be so easily pleased, a little kindness was all he really required, but Prowl felt no embarrassment, no shame. It was far better to care for, and to be cared for by the mech he was bound to if not in spark and ceremony just yet. His chronometer told him he had another half joor left before he needed to rise and return to the investigation. Had he been alone in the berth, Prowl would have risen, run through his forms, and readied himself for the mega-cycle ahead. Instead, he luxuriated in the berth, and watched Jazz as he recharged.

 

It had been a really close thing, but despite what he had so briefly feared, Prowl had been fast enough, and he would be fast enough as often as necessary, he would protect Jazz from any threat that dared step into his path. Polihex deserved a benevolent Prince, and Prowl, deserving or no, wanted to be safe and valued. For either to continue, Jazz needed to live, and the tactician thought making sure that did not change would not be the easiest of plans. Someone had hired that assassin, and Prowl doubted it was Shockwave himself. The Lord of Tarn would have impressed upon any of his agents that eluding capture was the highest priority. He would have be determined to avoid dragging his young kingdom into a war for which he was unlikely to benefit, and he would not risk such a thing with an untested operative, in short the fact that the failed assassin was Tarnian felt to Prowl like smoke and mirrors. Choosing a foreign talent would have been a clever tactic for a group of Polihexian conspirators. Turbofire, Raisonne, Ricochet, and/or any number of counsel mechs or citizens a large good be amongst the guilty parties. It was a long suspect list. Had the Tarnian lived, it might have been possible to cut it down to more reasonable lengths, but the mech was dead, and Prowl could not really be sorry for it. Prowl frowned to himself, really it was a shame Polihex had no mnemosurgeons.

 

As it was, it was unlikely there would be any trace of the mech’s patron on his frame, or in his effects, and there was no way to access his memories. Unless the patron or patrons had been stupid enough to meet with the mech in public, and Prowl highly doubted it, neither the Enforcers nor the Spymasters were likely to discover who had paid the would be assassin. This was the reality, the Praxian did not have to like it to accept it. That even he was unlikely to be able to discover the villain only fed Prowl’s conviction that the security around the palace, and within Polihex itself wound need to be strengthened. They would need make it as difficult as possible for any new talents to take their shot. Jazz would never accept turning his principality into an Enforcer state, and he would not be wrong to recoil at the idea, but they could establish more patrols of unmarked Enforcers, with operatives patrolling the oil houses, and dens of ill repute. If enough optics remained online and focused, it would be not be so easy to line up the next shot.

 

“You’re thinkin’ awfully hard,” Jazz said, sleepy static in his voice.

 

“I do not believe we will find any clues to identify the conspirators,” Prowl admitted, his optics focusing on the other mech as he pulled free of his tactical systems.

 

“Mm, I don’t think so either,” the Polihexian replied. “It’s a game o’ shadows. Mech’s probably a few hits to his designation, but he probably don’t actually even got a chip with his own designation anywhere on him, never mind a confession o’ his previous crimes. I never did.”

 

“Were you ever captured?” the prince asked.

 

“Once,” Jazz said. “In Kaon. Slagtard called Backfire hung me over a smelter, lowered me down little by little over three mega-cycles. He thought he could stare some intel outta me. His plan backfired. Heh. Origin found me, rescued me, and tossed him into the smelter.”

 

“That sounds terrifying,” Prowl replied. It was surprising that the mech could speak of the event so calmly.

 

“If I hadn’t known my origin was close, I’d cut the chains in dropped myself into the vat,” the sovereign explained. “Givin’ up my secrets, turnin’ on my origin, the mech they were really lookin’ for, that was never gonna happen. They didn’t know we were kin. They just thought I was his rookie... They thought they could make me break. Not a chance, if I’d come close to breakin’, I’da dropped myself to protect him. I’d never o’ turned on my origin.”

 

“I am grateful it did not come to that,” the Praxian said.

 

“Here’s to that,” Jazz replied. “Guess we got enough time for a quick cube. We got enough gels leftover from the dark-cycle.”

 

“You do not need to escort me,” Prowl offered. “You have some recharge left, I would think.”

 

“I can get it, if I want it, when I get back,” the Polihexian countered, lightly. “I’d rather see safely there until I’m sure you got a good team watchin’ your back.”

 

“As you wish,” the prince replied. A part of him almost sneered at the idea he needed protection, but Prowl quickly pushed down his ego. He knew well he was not invulnerable, Ricochet had seen to that.

 

Cubes were waiting for them, and again Prowl wondered if Tracks had audio devices planted in Jazz’s chambers. It seemed very unlikely, of course. Jazz was the operative, not Tracks, he would have been a fool to put recording devices in any of the sovereign’s spaces. It would not have been tolerated for even an instant. They would not have been permitted in the Praxian’s spaces either, at least he thought not. Jazz was in them often enough, and he would not have wanted his privacy invaded in such away. Putting these thoughts aside, the prince picked up his cube and drank it before reaching for a few gels. With his limited recharge time, Prowl knew he needed to keep his fuel intake up if he wanted to operate efficiently.

 

“You will be meeting with your Spymasters at some point this mega-cycle?” Prowl asked as he finished his gel.

 

“Mhm,” Jazz confirmed. “If they ain’t already see the frame, their gonna wanna right away. If the slagtard is part of a gang or circle, he might have a mark somewhere, probably on his protoform. Seems unlikely, ‘less he’s young. A seasoned assassin or op woulda bolted when they got spotted, takin’ the shot when there were that many armed Enforcers ‘n guards below was stupid.”

 

“I saw him briefly,” the Enforcer prince said. “He did not show evidence of significant wear. My estimation is that he was a young adult mech.”

 

“Young ‘n stupid then,” the Polihexian nodded his helm. “Fits. Makes me think he ain’t from one o’ the half-cocked groups that try to operate here. My ‘genitor crushed mosta them, even chased the Priesthood of Mortius outta Polihex. He only wanted his ops workin’ in his land. But gangs usually got their own talent, ‘n we got gangs in Polihex, ain’t no point in denying it.”

 

“I suspect he was not a local hire,” Prowl replied. “Given the risks of discovery, any local operation would have selected an experienced assassin, not a rookie. He will have been hired from outside Polihex’s borders, almost certainly by someone within.”

 

“I’d the same thought,” Jazz said. “Temptin’ as it is to point digits in the obvious directions. I gotta have proof before I bring nobles in for interrogation.”

 

“I will see what the Enforcers have uncovered so far,” the Praxian promised.

 

With the beginning of his shift coming near, the couple wait their way out of the palace. The number of guards, and Enforcers waiting did not surprise Prowl, Nightbeat’s presence did. His attendant, dipped his helm and his doorwings, a bow of Praxian style. Confused and concerned enough that a small frown twisted his lipplates, the prince left Jazz, and walked over to the blue and yellow Praxian. It looked to Prowl that his attendant had recharged about as much as he had, if not less. He was not angry at Nightbeat for coming to do his duty, but the mech was due some time to recover his emotional balance, he had had nowhere near enough time for that.

 

“You need not be here, Nightbeat,” Prowl said. “You remain understandably disturbed.”

 

“Metaforensics is bound to want to talk to me more,” Nightbeat explained. “Might as well get it over with, My Lord.”

 

“When you have completed your interviews, you are free to return here,” the prince replied. “You will require time to absorb all that happened, do not rush yourself.”

 

“Yes, My Lord,” the younger Praxian agreed. “I just want to see for myself that there’s no one else waiting to take a shot.”

 

“You’re a good mech, Nightbeat,” Jazz said as he walked up. “’N a good guard to Prowl. Together, me ‘n ya can go through the guards ‘n Enforcers to pick the mechanisms that are gonna serve as guard for Prowl from now on. It’ll be easier for both of us to leave once we know we got good mechanisms watchin’ yer master.”

 

“Yes, Serene Highness!” Nightbeat perked up a little. “That’d be good.”

 

Prowl raised his browridge at Jazz, and looked back to Nightbeat. It had not occurred to him that the attendant would be worried for his safety enough to force himself into doing his duty while still processing the fact that he had taken a life. He felt... touched and... unworthy of such loyalty. The Praxian forced down that ugly feeling, buried it under the ATS. Though overall his sense of self worth had improved, even by a real leap these last mega-cycles, the stain of his procreator’s disgust continued to creep up, to dig its claws into his spark, and his processor. Jazz caught his optics, the bitterness that had begun to pool in Prowl’s spark melted away.

 

“Y’ve offered him the world, Prowl,” Jazz whispered as he returned to the Praxian’s side. “The chance to live his dream. Ya earned his loyalty. I’ll make sure he don’t stick ‘round the station too long.”

 

“Thank you, Jazz,” Prowl replied in an equally quiet voice.

 

Jazz had earned Prowl’s loyalty too. The Polihexians would have the finest Enforcers, with expertise in all levels of metaforensics and procedure. This would be Prowl’s gift of gratitude. Prowl knew the skills instructors would need in order to build the ideal curriculum for the criminal sciences program Jazz wished to launch, and he would recruit them from all over Cybertron. Any number of educators would leap at the chance to build, and to design a new program, and a new degree. Some might be leery of relocating to Polihex, and those were not the mechanisms Prowl would recruit. They would need to be steady, ambitious, adventurous, and knowledgeable. In the Enforcer prince’s processor, he envisioned a multi-cultural faculty, ranging in age from young to near ancient. For the specialty of trace analysis Prowl thought his former instructor in Praxus might just be perfect, if he could entice him over without Veneer catching wind. It would be a token act of revenge against his procreator, and a fine boon for Polihex.

 

“The cogs in your helm are turnin’,” the sovereign observed.

 

“I considering what specialized training would benefit our Enforcers most in the immediate and intermediate,” the Praxian explained.

 

“I’ll leave that to ya,” Jazz replied, smiling with pride at him. “Can’t think of anyone who’s gonna know better.”

 

“I will confirm with the Praefectus Vigilum,” Prowl said. “I do not wish to overstep.”

 

“Praefectus Calculus ain’t a stupid mech, he knows we’re laggin’ behind, science wise, ‘n he knows you’ve got some o’ the best trainin’ in the world behind ya,” the Polihexian advised. “He wants your advice. Don’t be afraid to share it.”

 

He was more afraid, more cautious that he really wished to be. Prowl knew he had considerably more rigorous training behind him that that of any Polihexian Enforcer, the Praefectus Vigilum included. Along with that training, he had considerable experience, though nowhere close to as much as the Praefectus Vigilum and many of the most senior Polihexian Enforcers. That resume ought to have given the Praxian more confidence, and when it came to investigating, or strategizing, he had unshakable confidence. But building this new program from the floor up, in a foreign land, reshaping these foreign Enforcers, expecting them to change their thinking, change their procedures as a mere... lover to the Prince, Prowl would have been a fool to think any of it could be done without blow back. So long as he could keep the Praefectus Vigilum on board, the aged Polihexian Enforcer could likely manage any of his subordinates’ concerns, but keeping himself in other mechanisms’ good graces had never been one of the prince’s strong points.

 

Focus on the investigation. Focus on what you know. Plan for failures, plan for disruption, and plan for disputes, but keep focus on the investigation, this was the priority for the coming mega-cycles. As he, Jazz and the guards and Enforcer drove for the station, Prowl set his ATS to focus on what he had observed at the crime scene. The old mech’s death had been quick, the only mercy so far as Prowl could see. The Tarnian’s death had been quick as well. Each of Nightbeat’s hits were kill shots, the mech’s spark casing had been obliterated, his spark with it. He had been moving back, away from the window after taking his failed shot, but Nightbeat had been quicker. Taking the shot had been an act of reckless arrogance. Had Nightbeat’s shots missed, the tenement would still have been swarmed with armed Enforcers. He would have been captured, or shot dead. Prowl would have preferred the former, It was unlikely the mech would ever be identified, let alone who might have hired him, unless he was actually a local, but the Praxian doubted that was the case.

 

They arrived at the precinct just as the sun had risen t their backs. The scene organized chaos. Despite the terrifying incident the previous dark-cycle, there was a crowd, significant in size, pressed up against Enforcer barricades. At the front of the mass of mechanisms were reporters shooting questions, calling for comments. They were kept well back from the royals, by Enforcers who looked like they had no patience to suffer any fools. Prowl looked off across the street and saw another barricade, another crowd of reporters and onlooker barring access to the crime scene. Whatever scientific training they may have lacked, the Polihexian Enforcers were disciplined, and clearly familiar with crowd management, and the inherent importance of protecting the integrity of crime scenes. Jazz raised a servo in greeting to those gathered. Though the common mechanisms dropped and bowed, the reporters continued to bark their questions. It was an interesting observation.

 

“I’ll see ya back here after yer shift,” Jazz declared once the station doors had closed behind him. Prowl almost argued, parted his lips to speak when the Polihexian gave him that look.

 

“I will endeavour to not keep you waiting,” Prowl replied. He turned to Nightbeat. “Do not be flustered by the questions. They will likely ask the same ones, worded slightly differently. It is vitally important that your statement is completely factual.”

 

“Understood, my Lord,” Nightbeat said.

 

“Come with me then,” the Praxian replied, dipping his doorwings to Jazz before he led Nightbeat to the reception desk where he addressed the Enforcer on duty. “Please alert metaforensics that Nightbeat has returned to give another statement, as a matter of standard procedure.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” the mech said. Though Nightbeat was a mature mech, and his servant and not his kin or creation, Prowl remained with the younger Praxian until an Enforcer came to escort Nightbeat to an interview room. He felt protective of the younger mech, though he would not allow himself to interfere with the interview. Knowing Nightbeat’s role in the incident, Prowl thought the interviewers would take a light touch with anxious mech. It would take considerable time before Nightbeat finished processing his actions and their consequences, and the Enforcer prince did not want his attendant’s progress flipped on its helm but an overly aggressive Enforcer. At the end of this, Prowl wanted to have Nightbeat remain in his service, though even if the interview was handled perfectly, it was possible that the young mech may not wish to, and he might yet ask for leave to return home to Praxus. Prowl doubted he would be lucky enough to find such a compatible servant again, but he would not object if Nightbeat wished to return to Praxus or to travel anywhere else on Cybertron, it was Nightbeat’s life, and it would be Nightbeat’s choice, and he had save Jazz’s life. He was due a reward.

 

Prowl did not need Praefectus Calculus to meet him, having been shown around the station once, the Praxian had crude blueprints saved in his ATS, and he would never get lost, or turned around now. It was no surprise to find the older Enforcer standing over the workstation that all but filled the central office of metaforensics. Images of the scene, the burn from the laser fire of the wall of the presinct, steps from where Jazz had stood, the window where the shot was fired were illuminated, along with the scene of Windmill’s murder. The Praefectus Vigilum was not alone, of course. Metaforensics officers were adding data to the murder board, linking evidence together as it formed a web. As Prowl entered the room, the Praefectus beckoned him over to look at the evidence that had been amassed. There had been an autopsy in the dark-cycle, the Praxian saw. As he and Jazz had both surmised, there were no brands or emblems on any portion of the Tarnian’s armour or protoform. There was no ID chip, just a disposable credit chip, nothing to tie him to anyone. Experts from the gang unit had analyzed his paint scheme, and did not find any match to any cult, or gang they had encountered before. It was unfortunate, but hardly surprising.

 

“What’s your first thought?” Praefectus Calculus asked.

 

“He likely scouted the district before selecting his nest,” Prowl replied. “Someone likely saw him, perhaps even spoke to him. If we can narrow down the date of his arrival, we may be able to find the commercial transport he came in on, or if he had a private craft.”

 

“Enforcers are still canvassing the area, with any luck they find witnesses,” the older mech replied.

 

“I considered that this might be a gang initiation, and that he could have been a citizen of Polihex but I believe this scenario can largely be dismissed,” the Praxian revealed. “His weapon has three notches on the stock. In his subspace he had a small blade sharp enough to make the cuts. He did not have ID. There is no sign he has abused circuit boosters or speeders, and there is no sign that he ever went without fuel without fuel for any extended period. This mech was not an experienced assassin but he had training. If this was an initiation, it was not for a gang.”

 

“The Spymasters said the same,” Calculus replied. “They are down at the morgue now, scoring for any identifying marks, but they don’t believe they’ll find any. According to them, this wouldn’t be the work of any guild, cult or king they’ve run across. I’ve no reason to doubt them... All this means is I doubt this will ever see inside the Halls of Justice.”

 

“You are correct,” Prowl agreed. “If we are careful, the press with play this as a lone madmech, and the general population will continue to live their normal lives. If there is any chance of finding who hired him, we will. If not, we will use this to do all we can to prevent an attack like this happening again.”

 

“Unfortunately, I’m with you,” the Praefectus Vigilum said. “There are somethings the general population is best not knowing. That there will be likely be dozens more plots against their Prince is not a reality they need to be party to.”

 

***

 

As Prowl led Nightbeat off to meet with metaforensics, Jazz made his way to the morgue. The twin spies were already there, and had been for a while. It might have been outside the norm for a Prince of Polihex to view the frame of the assassin that had tried to kill him, but everybot in Polihex knew by now that Jazz was not conventional in any way. Though both mech had served in the field for vorns prior to becoming the Spymasters, it had been a good long while since either had actually been wrist deep in an operation. While they were kept appraised by any shifts outside Polihex’s borders, Jazz had been more recently outside of them, had more recently been mixed up with the smaller assassin cults in Kaon and Uraya, and the truly massive cult of Mortius that had tendrils just about everywhere on Cybertron, perhaps even beyond. While all the intel he had gathered had been shared, it was possible that Jazz had seen something, had not registered it as anything important, and it was plenty worth his time to check out the dead slagsucker to see if he might have been tied up with any of those half-clocked defects. He doubted it, none of the cults or guilds he had ever encountered would have trusted the assassination of a head of state to a novice. Frag, his origin had not set him up for one until he had been in the field for three vorn, and even that had been earlier than Punch had wanted but the threat against Polihex had been very real, and the one time Spymaster had been out of commission due to a rather random injury.

 

Had the threat to the principality been dire, had the assassin in question not been moving on Greyshield, the hit likely would have waited until Punch had healed. Jazz’s origin would have rather waited vorns longer, if ever, to send his creation on such a mission. In the end, the kill had been surprisingly easy, given that the target had been a seasoned assassin out of Uraya, but he had not expected a counter-operative to come for him within Uraya, in that empty airstrip. Though Jazz had no regrets about his actions that dark-cycle, the former saboteur had never taken particular pleasure in assassinations, and had performed only five over the course of his career. Vandalism and subversion had always been his niche, and intel had always been Punch’s. Assassinations had generally been tasked to other operatives, mech and femme Jazz never actually met. Apart from the Spymasters the only operative he had ever known was his origin.

 

That was not likely to change, really, the identities of operatives was best kept a secret, individual agents known only to their handlers, or commanders, or teammates. All of Polihex’s agents were went to have separate lives from their duties, families, even other jobs. Jazz and Punch had been anomalous due to the latter’s particular nature. It was not possible for Punch to ever just sit back, have a cube, read a datapad or visit with friends. He had no friends, that required trust, something the mech could not give many. This was one of the ways Jazz and his originator differed drastically. Unlike Origin, he was gregarious, and social, and he was able to be this way, and stay alive as an operative by having an excellent read of other mechanisms. The guards he had brought with him, who were waiting a few floors above, the sovereign had personally chosen from the ranks, having had very little time to make the judgment call, but he had good instincts, so did the Praefectus so with any luck the Enforcers that would be arriving for inspection, for Jazz nix or okay as guards for Prowl would be good to go as well.

 

“Your Serene Highness,” Rumbler greeted. “We’ve gone over the frame again, nothing interesting so far as I can see.”

 

“It’s just Jazz,” the sovereign eplied as he greeted the twin spies, dispensing with those grating formalities. “I figure y’ain’t likely to be missin’ somethin’ but I’ll take a look.”

 

The dead mech had once been a garish green, according the coroner’s report, but now the frame was dull grey, the mech’s colour nanites having died with him. Despite not being able to see the colours live, the coroner’s analysis of the deactivated nanites told Jazz what each component of the Tarnian’s frame had been. There was nothing in the colour scheme that screamed guild or cult membership, in fact the luminescent green would have been thoroughly disapproved of by any Priest of Priestess of Mortius Jazz had ever had the misfortune of encountering, and the cults in Uraya and Kaon had each had their own colour scheme, and radioactive green was not one of their colours either. It may actually have been that paint, and not the glare off the gun that Nightbeat had spotted. Jazz had to wonder how he had missed the slagtard, but of course the answer was simple, he had not been looking. Examining the mech from the bottom of his peds to the top of his helm, the former saboteur found nothing at all that stood out, solidifying the working theory that the mech may well have been an assassin, but not an accomplished one.

 

“I borrowed the gun from the Enforcers,” Sprocket declared as Jazz stepped back. If the look of Rumbler was anything to go by, this was news to his twin. “Hey, I’ll give it back before the notice.”

 

“Just... don’t get caught,” his twin sighed. “Working _with_ us is new to these old guard Enforcers, it’d be great if we didn’t torch our bridges.”

 

“Notches,” Jazz said as he looked over the gun. “So definitely not even an initiate. Not one of the cults, or companies would gonna wanna see slag like this... Ain’t ‘sposed to leave evidence, right?”

 

“Gang maybe,” Sprocket replied. “This sort of showboating wouldn’t be strange. Reason they get caught more than the professionals... So three notches... An amateur for sure, but not a newspark. This was probably his first real big hit. Who the frag hired this idiot? For a job like this? I gotta say I’m glad, but really? Whoever hired him didn’t have top connections, or they were worried you did.”

 

“Never met a member of the Priesthood that wouldn’t be glad to kill me then, they’d probably be just as happy now,” the sovereign said. “Not that they’d recognize me. I ain’t Origin but it’s not like I walked onto jobs with the same paint.”

 

“The Archdiocese probably wouldn’t likely’ve approved a hit,” the cool-helmed twin suggested. “They don’t go after monarchs. The only one that’s got their signature is Trannis, but I’m betting the Crystal Empire paid a fortune to see the Martyr of Kaon nailed to the wall. Don’t think you’ve done anything exciting enough to earn that kind of expense... We know what each clan has in their coffers, none of them can afford the Priesthood of Mortius’ bill.”

 

“Did my ‘genitor use them?” Jazz asked.

 

“No,” Rumbler said. “He didn’t trust them. He wanted to have his own network, as wide and as dangerous as the Priesthood of Mortius. The last of _them_ in Polihex was run off before you emerged.”

 

“No argument,” the former saboteur replied. “But he didn’t use assassins much, I don’t think, ‘cept as counter-ops.”

 

“No,” Sprocket confirmed with a shake of his helm. “The only mechanism I know he would’ve loved to take out was Seizer, but the Prince of Uraya is as well guarded, if not more so in his palace on the peak that you are in the Maze.”

 

“Origin never managed to infiltrate the Seizer’s stronghold,” Jazz said. “Mech don’t hire Polihexians.”

 

“He doesn’t hire foreign frames at all,” the brash twin replied. “I think he has some in the harem, but we can’t be sure. Like it was here, the servants that serve the concubines of the Prince are locked behind the same doors. But the general staff? Every servant, every single one is Urayan. There was a scandal before you emerged. Some foreign frame, one he trusted tried to kill him, and killed his newly emerged heir.”

 

“That’s ugly,” the monochrome Polihexian said. “Did he blame it on us?”

 

“No,” Rumbler replied. “He blamed the second most powerful family in Uraya. They were stripped of their properties and imprisoned, or executed. Why, and how, we don’t know. Your origin wasn’t in Uraya at the time, he was Spymaster here, and the operative in Uraya never got that closer to the palace, not even as close as Punch, and he never got closer than the third step.”

 

“Anyone ask the Viceroy?” Jazz asked.

 

“Before his time,” Sprocket said. “And he was always off limits, anyways.”

 

“Oh?” The sovereign asked, the statement came as a surprise.

 

“From the second he stepped ped in the palace, Viceroy Tracks, originally Secretary to the Prince, was untouchable,” the teal twin explained. “Your origin wasn’t allowed to interrogate him, the general belief was that they were lovers. Or that the viceroy was a spy inside the palace that _only_ answered to Prince Greyshield. Or both.”

 

“Does the viceroy have a lover now?” Jazz asked. “Has he ever, that you know?”

 

“Not that we’ve identified,” Rumbler replied. “No friends, no attendant, no secretary. Nothing, ever. And we’ve looked, we’ve had tails on him for stellar-cycles straight, I assume your originator did too. There was never anything to see. He goes to a spa, the same one, twice a quartex, a few different musical halls, the opera house. He never meets with anyone, we’ve never seen him with anyone... And we’ve uh... never stopped following him... so if you want us to back off... All we can say is he was devoted to serving your progenitor. He’s been devoted to serving you.”

 

“He ain’t my lover,” the former saboteur said. “Ain’t made even a hint that he’d be up for it, which is good ‘cause I wouldn’t keep him ‘round if he was... and keep up your tails, all o’em ‘til ya don’t think there’s anythin’ to chase.”

 

“He really isn’t a friendly mech,” Sprocket declared. “It’s always felt funny, felt funny to Punch to but there’s never been anything to find. He keeps his own company, and to be fair when he did give your progenitor fantastic intel when he came over to our side. Uraya’s secret code... the actual size of the army. It changed the game. He may have singlehandedly prevent another war just by crippling Uraya’s intellegnce network. It’s really no surprise he advanced quickly. He’s got the processors, and the ruthlessness to survive Polihex’s court.”

 

“That was him?” Jazz asked, remembering the history his origin had taught him. “Makes sense, he was a... secretary... in the harem... He’d o’ heard all the pillow talk, harems are nothin’ but dens of gossip ‘n deceit.”

 

“As an x-frame post purge he was extremely low in the ranks,” the thoughtful twin explained. “Despite his capabilities, he was never going to get promoted. He was given to your progenitor during the trade talks as a scribe... Uraya nobles think it’s obscene to record anything by their own servos. Anyone, it was recorded by the Kalisite ambassador that it was consider quite the insult to give “that x-frame” to someone of the rank of Prince. His Serene Highness knew it, and turned it around on Seizer by taking Tracks, and all his vorns of observations, back to Polihex with him.”

 

“Lucky for us,” the sovereign replied, it all made perfect sense, it all jived, and yet something about it all felt very off. Perhaps he did have some of his origin’s penchant for paranoia.

 

“Very,” Rumbler agreed. “We’ve got optics and audials out looking for any whispers about this sack of slag. We’re looking at every clan. If we discover anything, we’ll alert you.”

 

“Ya do that,” Jazz said. “’M gonna sort out Prince Prowl’s new guard. I’ll give ya the designations of the Enforcers when I get’em. I know y’re vettin’ all o’ the Enforcers but these ones are priority. I wanna know everythin’ ‘bout them from the ‘cycle they emerged.”

 

“We’ll vet them as soon as you give us their designations,” the teal twin promised. “And we will get that gun back to the evidence locker before anyone notices its missing.”

 

“I’ll leave ya to it,” the monochrome mech replied, and he turned, and left his former commanders to their work.

 

Examining the frame and talking with Sprocket and Rumbler had taken a couple of joors, more than Jazz had planned, but it had been well spent. As he had hoped, Nightbeat was waiting with the guards. Amongst their number was Flak, one of the attendant/guard’s neighbours in the palace, and the intended leader of one of the two teams Jazz intended to put together for Prowl’s protection. The respect Captain Flak showed Nightbeat would rub off on the other guards, and that was essential so far as Jazz was concerned. Every mechanism on the team, on each team had to be able to work together, and the Praxian. As Prowl’s personal guard/chamber attendant he would be closest to the prince, and his first and last defender, they needed to be able to follow his lead when it came to working for Prowl because Primus knew the Praxian prince would not just cover his helm and duck if a threat came for him. He would fight for his own life, and they needed to know when to resist this impulse, and when to go with it, and Nightbeat as going to be the mech that needed to make that judgment. It was a lot to put on a young mech’s shoulders, but Jazz thought there could be no better mechanism to entrust this with.

 

Jazz gestured for the guards to follow him and went immediately for the press room. Inside were twelve Enforcers, they ceased mingling when their sovereign entered, and saluted respectfully. They had been given little notice of the change to their duties, but to the sovereign’s pleasure, they did not look put off, or confuse, and they did not look as though they had just been selected at random. To his expert optics it was obvious that these Enforcers were from diverse backgrounds, not just were they not all Polihexian mechanisms, but their grades of armour clearly varied. Two, Jazz knew both by armour and glyphs, were members of the Emergency Response Team and had military grade armour, like a few of the guardmechanisms he had selected, and they were both Polihexian in frame. Six of the Enforcers looked to be general duty Enforcers, with a range of ranks. Two were Polihexian, one was Urayan, one was Kalisite, and two were Altihexian. The final four Enforcers each had specializations, according to their glyphs, though Jazz did not known immediately what they were. Three of these mechanisms were Polihexians, and one was a sturdy femme that might have had code from Polihexian, or might have just warn a visor as a fashion statement,

 

“Thanks for gettin’ here without so much as a joors notice,” Jazz said as he guards stood next to the gathered Enforcers. Both groups eyed each other with open curiosity. “All ‘o ya know ‘bout the attack yester-cycle, ‘n that it was Prince Prowl ‘n Attendant Nightbeat here that saved the ‘cycle. All of ya outta figured that His Highness ain’t a normal royal by Polihexian standards, any more than me. He’s a Diffusion Master, ‘n a student o’ Circuit-Su, as well as all around fraggin’ brilliant. He mighta been targetted, eventually, just for standin’ at my side, but by shieldin’ me he showed slagtards like the one dead in the morgue he ain’t just arm candy. So he needs a guard, one that can work with _him_. And one that can work with Nightbeat, his personal guard, not just his attendant.”

 

“Is the idea to use Enforcers around crime scenes, Your Serene Highness?” The femme asked.

 

“’N throughout his shifts,” the Polihexian Prince replied. “Dependin’ how ya flow together, how the teams work. I ain’t wedded to any one set up. I want him well guarded, but he ain’t a conventional prince any more than me. Enforcers are gonna know what to do ‘round a crime scene, gonna know what should be there, what shouldn’t so I want some o’ ya with him whenever he’s on a scene. ‘N y’re gonna have a better handle on how he thinks. So start. I’d like all of ya to introduce yerselves, ‘n tell us a bit ‘bout why your commanders thought ya might be a good fit for His Highness’ guard. Nightbeat, would ya start?”

 

“I’m Nightbeat,” the young Praxian said. “I’m Praxian. I know how much space my Lord needs. I can speak to him without speaking. I can spot what doesn’t fit... and I’m a... a good shot.

 

“That ya are,” the sovereign declared, lightly clapping Nightbeat on the back. The mix of guards and Enforcers either nodded or applauded. Nightbeat’s doorwings perked up. He might have felt out of place next to guardmechanisms and Enforcers but he had at least superficial respect from all of those gathered. It was not a bad start.

 

“I’m Lancer,” the purple and orange femme spoke after the group settled. “I’m a cryptoanalyst, and a linguistic specialist. I haven’t found a code I couldn’t crack, and I have at least a basic understanding of every dialect of Neocybex and Primal Vernacular.”

 

“I’m Chameleon,” the Urayan, who wore a red visor over his green faceplates, spoke next. “I work the undercover beat. My commander figured I could keep an optic out inside the crowd.”

 

“ **I’m Siren** ,” one of the general duty Enforcers, a grey Polihexian, spoke, or rather shouted next. Everyone winced, but the other Polihexian did so just a bit harder. “ **I do a lot of crowd control.** ”

 

“He’s from the Sonic Canyons, and doesn’t have much of an _inside_ voice,” an all over red Polihexian explained. “I’m Hosehead, I usually work with Siren. Even in a huge, screaming crowd, he can hear the a pin drop, thanks to growing up in the Canyons. Me? Mostly I can work with him without getting a helmache.”

 

“That might be an Outlier ability, Hosehead,” one of the guard mech, an orange Polihexian said. “I’m Roll Out, ‘n I’m a weapon’s specialist.”

 

The introductions went on until all twenty-four mechanisms had introduced themselves. There was no question that Siren and Hosehead would work on the same six mech team. They knew how to work together, and the sensitivity of Siren’s audials could not be dismissed. Jazz thought Captain Scorch, a seasoned guard of Polihexian frametype would work well enough with them, as team leader, with Boxcar, an equally experienced guard also Polihexian in frame, Tempest, the Kalisite Enforcer, and Toxin, a Tagonian guardmech. This would be the core team, that would guard Prowl to and from the Palace, and during the ‘cycle on those mega-cycles Prowl served the Enforcers, with additional Enforcers, like Chameleon with their specialized training when they were needed. Jazz thought he would pair Lancer with the Urayan and see how the femme did undercover in crowds.

 

In the end two solid teams formed, the second made up of four guards and only two Enforcers, headed by Captain Flak, which would take over the four mega-cycles the primary team would spending either training or on their ‘cycles off. There was no sign that any of the newly minted Phalanx begrudged Nightbeat’s role with them, but should any fissures appear, it would be the guard or Enforcer that would be reassigned, not the Praxian attendant. Those meant to fill a particular role when called for did not seem to feel insulted that they would part of either specific team. The guard did not appear peevish about working with Enforcers, and vice versa. The Phalanx not bound to either six mechanism team would continued their normal duties, and come in as needed, it seemed to suit all of them. None of them seemed to be anything but honoured by the responsibility they had been asked to take on, and Jazz was happy with that. They would need to go through some rigorous training as teams, and individuals to ensure they learned to trust and rely on each other, else they would not become cohesive teams. Jazz made a note to arrange this with Captain Gripper. The training field at the palace could be covered with a temporary awning to allow them to run exercises. They would begin as soon as Captain Gripper slotted it in, the next orn at the latest.

 

“Those of ya that got other duties to tend until ya get called back, yer free to go to’em now,” Jazz said once he was comfortable with his plans. “’M gonna arrange trainin’ to start at the palace, to make sure ya can work together like components in the same frame. This ain’t a game, or a holiday, I don’t want any o’ ya on this if ya can’t treat it as life ‘n death.”

 

“We’re ready to serve,” Scorch replied. “Right?”

 

“ **Right!** ” All the guards and Enforcers answered as one, but no single mechanisms voice could be heard over Siren.

 

“Again, indoor voice,” Hosehead said, a servo on his audials, a stance mirrored by all the other Polihexians. “Please!”

 

“ **Sorry**!” Siren replied, loud and sheepish. “Sorry!”

 

“I’ll be back to escort His Highness home,” Jazz declared. “Nightbeat, why don’t ya return with me. Ya got some downtime still comin’ to ya.”

 

“Yes, My Lord,” the Praxian replied. “Thank you.”

 

The Enforcers mixed amongst the guards nodded sagely. Though many Enforcers would never find themselves in a firefight, they were trained for the follow out, made to understand that you could not just walk away from taking an assailant’s life, justified or not, without being affected. Captain Flak, who would be returning to the palace with his newly formed teamed stepped up to the Praxian, and rubbed his shoulder companionably. Jazz understood his motivation. Many of the guards had never been in a life or death fight, Flak had, Flak had killed. It did not matter that it had been in a field of war and not on a city street, the effect on the processor was not so dissimilar. He was setting himself up as a safe set of audials to vent to, something Nightbeat needed.

 

Scorch had also seen combat, it had been something the sovereign had been looking for when he had perused the guards, looking for who would captain the teams. None of the guards or Enforcers were green, that would have been reckless, but both captains had been tested under fire and if they faced it while defending Prowl, they would keep their helms, and they would keep their teams together, this made certain by the training Jazz would not just leave to Captain Gripper. As an after thought, as he was walking down the precinct steps the Polihexian thought those guards amongst the teams would need some Enforcer training. Prowl would be wary of having them even near a crime scene or investigation if they did not have some basic crime scene management  education , because if the brilliant Praxian decided they were a hindrance, Jazz had no doubted he would find a way to shed his Phalanx, so it was on the sovereign to ensure he had no such excuse.

 

End Chapter 12.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the very, very, very late update. Unfortunately January was a very bad month, topped with a "minor" break and enter at my home. The only thing stolen was my purse, but the event was... not traumatizing but it really pissed me off and I've been off my mojo. Anyways, if you're ever wondering what the hell I'm up too, check out my Tumblr, I tend to post little ficlets and random bitching more than anything.
> 
> https://anon-e-miss.tumblr.com/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

With Nightbeat in the servos of friendly guards, Jazz set out to find Tracks. True, the viceroy had not had a lot of time to get the answers on Jackpot and Trip-Up, especially given that the storms were getting worse, the atmospheric pressure effecting long range communications, but Tracks was a wily mech, he must have gotten through to at least one of the temples, or one of the clans. If the former consorts were still tonsured, as Jazz suspected they were, if he moved quickly, maybe Jazz could have them returned to their families before the Festival or Mortilus. Had his councillors been aware, those without ties to either Jackpot or Trip-Up would probably balk at their sovereign’s sense of urgency, the dismissed consorts had spents vorns in the temples, what was another quartex? It was convenient for Jazz then that only a few local councillors were present in the capital, and all were preoccupied with the failed assassination attempt. Well, if the former saboteur could use someone trying to slag him to his advantage, he might as well.

 

He could have commed Tracks, but Jazz did not bother. Odds were, the mech was in the council room, the room where near all their meetings were held when the counsel was not about, and if he was not, then the Polihexian would call him over. Jazz knew there were no recording devices in this room, trusted what was said in it to go unheard by the wrong audios. Most of the devices, all those he knew the locations of, belonged to his Spymasters. But at least once an orn, some strange bug or another would turn up. Rumbler or Sprocket or Jazz himself destroyed them on sight, but the lifelong saboteur was not naive enough to think there would not be more hiding.

 

Of all the rooms of the palace, the library was the one most often bugged. While it was one of Jazz’s favourite rooms overall, he did knew better than to hold any important conversations there. Of course anonymous bugs were not going to be anyone’s best course of intelligence. Jazz knew without a doubt that there were servants and courtiers taking credits from lords, and/or other patrons for dirt on him or Prowl. There was no addressing that helm on, but he was addressing it. If the sovereign gave his servants reason to give their loyalty to him, fewer and fewer would be happy to take credits to undermine him. It was a long game, but an easy enough one.

 

“My Lord, you have a guest,” Tracks declared before Jazz could even enter his the council room, in fact Tracks sidestepped passed him before the Polihexian even got a glyph out. “I will leave you to it.”

 

Jazz started to reach out a servo to stop the mech, to ask what the frag was wrong with him, but then Jazz saw his guest, and the he forgot all about the viceroy. Red servos on yellow hips, there was Punch, there was his originator, leaning against one of the ornate pillars that lined the room. With a whoop of joy, the young Polihexian closed the gap between them in a nanoklik at most, and hugged his origin with unrestrained glee. Punch chuckled, but returned the hug with an even tighter grip. They stood that way for a while, Jazz did not bother to count the kliks. When they finally separated, his origin held his shoulders, and gave him a thorough once over. Punch smiled, the yellow battle mask he wore constantly Uraya was subspaced away, letting his silver faceplates show. Jazz saw himself in the shape of his origin’s lipplates, and that cocksure smile.

 

“Y’ain’t changed a lick,” Punch declared. “Here I’d been thinkin’ ya’d o’ gotten fancy on me.”

 

“Nah,” Jazz replied with a grin. “Black’n white’s always been my style... I can’t believe y’re here.”

 

“Didn’t like the thought o’ spendin’ the festival alone,” his originator said. “I wanted to see ya.”

 

“Primus, I missed you,” the sovereign replied. “Tracks kept ya company while ya were waitin’?”

 

“He didn’t say a peep,” Punch chuckled. “’M not sure he even ventilated, poor mechlin’. Got manners, gotta admit that. Or he was worried I’d go riflin’ through your slag, but probably not.”

 

“Did ya just get in?” Jazz asked.

 

“I took the scenic route,” the spy explained. “Saw they put the boats in dry dock, took most o’ the docks down along the coast, those they didn’t are pretty much wrecked. Y’re doin’?”

 

“Rapier raised the alarm before he left for the Rains,” the creation explained. “We just sent the first load o’ rations over to stave off fuel shortage since they can’t fish or nothin’.”

 

“Y’re makin’ a good prince already,” Punch said. “I knew ya would. Y’re ‘genitor woulda sent fuel along, but he’d o’ haggled o’er it. Make sure Rapier was on his side for something... Ya just did it, didn’t ya.”

 

“’M responsible for them,” Jazz replied. “I thought ‘genitor was a decent prince, I keep findin’ more ‘n more that paints him bein’ a petty aft.”

 

“Greyshield was a bit o’ a mix,” the originator explained. “He was a real givin’ prince in the beginnin’, but he got hard, ‘n then harder.”

 

“He dismissed Consort Trip-Up, then Consort Jackpot, ‘n any number o’ undesignated Amica Endurae,” the sovereign said.

 

“He ‘n Prince Seizer had a race on,” Punch revealed. “Neither o’em had an heir, ‘n they were gettin’ older. They were competin’ who would have one first... Seizer looked liked he’d win, then the bitlet was murdered, power grab or somethin’, really rattle Uraya. My op in there thought the world was gonna end, the way Seizer reacted... Greyshield said it weren’t him, ‘n since Seizer didn’t declare war, I believed him. Back then I worked outta Polihex more... Greyshield wanted his Spymaster in his capital... and in his berth. I’d be carryin’ ya before much longer. When ya emerged, Greyshield won the race, won it twice o’er since Ricochet emerged before the end o’ the ‘cycle. It didn’t fix anythin’, didn’t soften ‘m, I thought it woulda, one stress outta the way.”

 

“He’d gotten twisted by then,” Jazz guessed.

 

“He locked up a consort he mighta loved in his youth, then another he at least lusted o’er, ‘n ended up with one he outright loathed,” the spy said. “His own fraggin’ fault.”

 

“I’m untonsuring the consorts,” the sovereign creation revealed. “They ain’t a threat to me. I won’t let’em be.”

 

“Raisonne’s clan might look like yer biggest threat, but Trip-Up’s kin got digits in pies all over Polihex,” Punch declared. “Lord Rad’s been off the counsel, outta favour since Trip-Up was dismissed. He didn’t take it kindly... He ‘n yer ‘genitor’d been close, close friends. There was no comin’ back from that.”

 

“He let his ego destroy his life,” Jazz said, seeing the image of his progenitor with greater clarity. “He kept Polihex hummin’ along, but he wrecked everythin’ that mighta mattered.”

 

“Make sure ya learn from him,” the originator ordered. “Make friends, make allies o’er enemies where’er ya can.”

 

“I’ll do my best,” the sovereign promised.

 

“I know ya will,” Punch said. “Ya always made friends better than me. Always read’em good.”

 

“Not too trustin’?” Jazz asked.

 

“Since y’ain’t been fragged over yet, ‘m gonna say no,” the spy replied. “I don’t want ya thinkin’ like me... I know ‘m paranoid, but its hard to tell yerself yer paranoid when yer right even half the time. I know it wasn’t easy for ya.”

 

“Ain’t been easy for ya either,” the creation said. “Ya kept me alive, Origin, ‘n when ya wanted to hold me close ya let me go my own way. I love ya.”

 

“I love ya, too bitlet,” Punch replied. “I know ‘bout the attack on ya, since Sprocket ‘n Rumbler ain’t around ‘m thinkin’ they’re workin’ it.”

 

“Just came from seein’ the frame,” Jazz revealed. “Young adult, a few notches on his rifle. Weren’t a pro, gunnin’ to be one, but too young ‘n stupid to make it.”

 

“Maybe a gang, or just a wannabe,” his originator said. “Smart ‘nough not have a chip on ‘m?”

 

“Ya,” the sovereign confirmed. “Prowl don’t think we got much o’ a shot o’ connectin’m to anyone. I got the same vibe.”

 

“Funny thing, havin’ the mech work wit yer Enforcers,” Punch observed.

 

“It’s what he’s forged for,” Jazz half explained, and half defended in decision, unable to keep bitterness from filling his voice and field. “Princes in Praxus serve a the empire, some ancient tradition. “The Heir, who woulda killed me if he coulda, that was fun, is a processor-doc, his mechlin’ brother is in the army. He was with the Enforcers until his cogsucker of an origin shipped him off hear to be my berthwarmer.”

 

“There’s a story there,” the spy said.

 

“He caught some serial slagtard that been attackin’, rapin’ young mechs,” the creation explained and he rubbed a servo down his face. It made him so angry. “Mech got him first. Hurt him, woulda gone all the way but ‘nother Enforcer turned up in time. Veneer exiled the fragger instead lettin’ Prowl take’m to trial, to keep it from gettin’ out that Prowl wasn’t quiet a purus anymore. Prowl didn’t just stand back. He argued with his origin, argued in front o’ the court. ‘N to punish him, Veneer musta let it slip that his creation wasn’t quite “pure” ‘n he made a deal with ‘genitor to send ‘m over as ‘Offical Amica Endura’ instead o’ consort.”

 

“This what he told ya?” Punch asked.

 

“I believe ‘m,” Jazz said, feeling a flare of irritation at his origin’s suspicion. It should not have come as any surprise, but it had been so, so clear to the young Polihexian that Prowl had spoken the painful truth that it did actually surprise him. He took the ruined pieces of that datapad and dropped them on his desk. “Concubine trainin’ manual that fragger gave Prowl, to hurt ‘m, to make sure he knew he was nothin’.”

 

“Ya found it, or he give it to ya?” His originator asked.

 

“Found it,” the sovereign replied. “When I figured out our furniture’s too firm for his doors, I got new slag made. Whoever put the room together left the pad out ‘n Prowl saw it. I saw his face. Mech don’t show much emotion, at all, but he looked like he wanted to disappear, couldn’t speak. So I turned it on, ‘n saw what it was. I wanna melt it down, but I don’t wanna contaminate the forge.”

 

“Ugly,” Punch said he picked up a piece of the scrap, and turned it over in his digits. “Ya feel pretty strongly.”

 

“Veneer gave it to ‘m,” Jazz explained, denta flashing in a snarl. “Wanted to make sure he knew he was nothin’, that he wasn’t fit to even be my concubine, so he’d better study ‘cause when I decided he wasn’t fit he’d be lookin’ for a job in a brothel. ‘N he believes it. He fraggin’ believes he ain’t enough. I can tell’m all I want I won’t dismiss’m, won’t do that to’m but I know he don’t believe me.”

 

The small fragment was crushed into dust in Punch’s digit. Anger, maybe not matching Jazz’s, but still powerful, and purposeful, flashed through his origin’s field. He watched as his origin sprinkled the ground up shard over the rest of the ruined datapad, and then rifled through his subspace. Punch withdrew two sealed containers. Jazz recognized them, of course he did, and his shoulders actually sagged with relief. When both containers were opened he watched his origin pour fine powder from one of the containers, into the one filled with a clear liquid. The mixture bubbled, and turned amber. When it stopped bubbling, Punch looked to his creation.

 

“Wanna do the honours?” He asked.

 

“I do,” the sovereign said, and with considerable relish, Jazz gathered up the broken pieces, and the dust and sprinkled it into the amber coloured acid. It bubbled again as the metal bits were dropped inside. The effect was not instant but within a few kliks the broken datapad was gone. The fumes were noxious, but they were nothing the filters in their air filtration systems could not handle. After a bream, Punch sealed the container again.

 

“I’ll neutralize it,” he declared. “Feelin’ any better, mechlin’ o’ mine?”

 

“Ya,” Jazz admitted. “I do. Wish it’d be so easy for Prowl. His brothers love’m, ‘m sure o’ it since Smokescreen really woulda killed, no doubt in my processor. But it don’t balance out their origin’s hate. It don’t balance bein’ robbed of justice ‘n shamed by a mech who’s ‘sposed to serve their empire, ‘n love ‘m.”

 

“So ya care for ‘m,” Punch observed.

 

“He’s... ‘bout as different a mech as I’da picked,” Jazz said, spun in a slow circle. “But would any mech I picked be right for all this?”

 

“Ya gave him the Enforcers,” the spy replied.

 

“Praefecus Vigilum made him Vigilum Secondus,” the creation said. “On his merit. ‘n why should I waste’m? He’s so fraggin’ smart, ‘n he wants to serve a greater cause, it’s in his spark.”

 

“Sounds to me like y’re doin’ right by’m,” Punch said. “Treat’m like he’s got value, ‘n he’ll know he’s more’n nothin’. Won’t happen over a dark-cycle or even a vorn, but it’s not just what ya say, love, it’s what ya do.”

 

“Y’ll meet’m this dark-cycle?” Jazz asked. “Ain’t gonna be a feast. Just the three o’ us.”

 

“That’s fine by me,” his originator said. “Your viceroy don’t dine wit ya?”

 

“Tracks only appears for feasts,” the sovereign explained. “Keeps to himself if there ain’t work to do.”

 

“Hmm,” Punch hummed. “Funny mech that one.”

 

“Says he don’t like mechanisms,” Jazz replied. “Sure there’s more to it. When I first came, he was always at ‘genitor’s side. Don’t know, maybe he’s mournin’, maybe he’s relieved to get his own space again.”

 

“I always wondered ‘bout him,” the spy admitted. “Everyone figured he was gonna be another Official Amica, but yer ‘genitor never gave any Amica a rank, or reward. Never. Thought he coulda had a patron ‘mongst the councillors, but he went up against every one o’ them some time or ‘nother. Never gave’em a lick or dirt to hold over’m.”

 

“He still hasn’t,” the creation said. “Maybe he just knows it’d be ugly for’m if Polihex fell ‘n Uraya took over. Maybe that’s all the motivation he needs.”

 

“Survival’s gotta be the strongest motivation a mechanism’s gonna have,” Punch replied. “Ya don’t survive in harems like Uraya’s wit’out a spark made o’ steel. ‘N ya don’t escape one ‘less yer slick ‘n smart.”

 

“Sounds like Tracks,” Jazz declared. Wanting to escape the questions swirling in his own processor and just enjoy his origin, he said: “It’s been a while since ya been here. ‘M workin’ on some changes. How ‘bout a tour?”

 

“I like the sound o’ that,” his origination replied.

 

Even now, Punch could probably walk the maze of hallways, and dead ends with his optics off line and never once get turned around. None of the structural elements of the palace had been changed, not yet at least, and it was not as though Jazz’s origin needed him to take him anywhere, but Jazz wanted share what he could of his plans, and his life with Punch while he could, because the odds were it was going to be brief. He could still hardly belief that Punch had come to Polihex of his own volition at all. The young sovereign had never doubted his originator’s love, but he had never been so certain of its depths as he was now, and it made him feel both lighter and surer than he had in several mega-cycles. His ‘genitor had never been much more than a stranger most of Jazz’s life. His origin had been the centre of his dangerous world. The thought of being cut off from him for the better part of the rest of his life continued to distress him. But if Punch had come now, maybe he would come again. It was enough to let him feel a bit more optimistic.

 

The maze twisted and turned to the centre of the palace complex until they stepped into the not so long defunct harem. It had been cleaned since Jazz and Prowl had been here. Renovations were a long ways from starting, the Master Artisan, and court architects were still sketching, but that time was trickling closer and closer to when this great wasted space would be reclaimed. The dead crystals had been cleared, and the Polihexian Prince wondered how the sickly one Prowl had taken away was fairing, he would have to ask. Punch looked around the open space, probably wondering why Jazz had brought him here, but more than just that, he was probably looking for hiding spots for both enemies, and defence. Jazz did not precisely follow his originator’s stare, but looked around too, where walls would be stripped, where it would be opened up, and given life.

 

“’M turnin’ into a mediation space ‘n training yard for the anyone practisin’ martial arts,” Jazz explained. “Accidentally ran into Prowl goin’ through some Diffusion forms. The Arts is the first thing we had in common. Spared just a few ‘cycles ago. He put me on my back. I was tryin’ to figure out how to put’m down without hurtin’ those doors, in he laid me out. I always thought Diffusion was a softer art, but he showed me good.”

 

“Any Art is deadly in the right servos,” Punch said. “Diffusion got watered down most o’ the world. For worship or mediation, dependin’, in Praxus it’s still trained wit a lethal edge.”

 

“Ya been to Praxus?” Jazz asked, surprised by the insight.

 

“Once, vorns ago,” the spy revealed. “I’d o’ been younger than you. Latched myself on wit one o’ those nomadic groups that take trade from as far as Kaon to Iacon, or the Empires. Didn’t get farther than the border bits. Foreigners ain’t allowed in the core o’ the Empire but the border’s full o’ markets. Ain’t much for a mech wit my job to see or do, so my boss back then nixed the plan to plant any spies in Praxus.”

 

“What ya saw, what’d it look like?” the creation asked.

 

“Clean,” Punch said. “It’s so different. Most o’ the buildings are all black ‘n white ‘n grey. Got trim o’ blue ‘n purple here ‘n there. Thought it was all real plain. Quiet too. They play music, but indoors, in folk like me weren’t invited in. No buskers or nothin’, so my cover was scrapped quick. Enforcers made sure there weren’t any beggars...”

 

“Are all the mechanisms monochrome?” Jazz asked. “Smokescreen’s blue ‘n red ‘n a little o’ everythin’ else. But Prowl’s... a lot like me”

 

“Nah, they were colourful folk,” the originator replied. “If they spoke to ya, ya knew they were havin’ two conversations. They’d speak to each other, just with those doors, always had’em movin’.”

 

“Prowl don’t move his much,” the sovereign revealed. “He said he didn’t learn the language until he was older. Veneer didn’t bother to raise his heirs ‘n the mech he foisted Prowl onto didn’t bother to get him tutors, kept him tied up, and locked up.”

 

“The more I hear, the more I think Veneer needs to meet the sharp end of an energon dagger,” Punch said.

 

“My feelin’ for sure,” Jazz agreed. “Tracks says Veneer needs to live ‘til Smokescreen finishes fraggin’ off or war might break out.”

 

“He’s... probably not wrong,” the spy sighed. “Praxus serves as a shield for the Crystal Empire. Kaon’s warlord would jump at a chance to take a bite out o’ his old master. Since the vassal o’ Tarn got put through Empurata, they been toeing the line, but whose to say what’d happen if the path to revenge was clear? It could get ugly quick, ‘n spread north to to Polihex.”

 

“Figured he knew what he was talkin’ ‘bout,” the creation sighed. “Maybe in a few vorns...”

 

“Let’s have a drink to that,” Punch said, draping his arm over Jazz’s shoulder. The younger Polihexian managed a proper smile.

 

“Let’s drink to that.”

 

***

 

Tracks hid in his suite. He would have denied that he had been hiding, had anyone had the gall to suggest it, but he had no one in his confidence, no one that would question his behaviour to his faceplates. That was fine. He had not had confidantes in Uraya. Not only would such a thing have been reckless, you simply did not give potential enemies ammunition, but no one would have cared to have his confidence, Tracks had been nothing, less than nothing. There had been no lower mech in the harem than the x-frame. Sometimes he woke in the dark-cycle and remembered, woke thinking he was back in Uraya, that his escape and rise to authority had been nothing but a cruel memory-flux. Those horrid nanokliks were rare now, Uraya was buried solidly in Tracks’ past.

 

But Punch made the Urayan x-frame think of the land of his emergence, and made him fear. The truth of his flight from the harem was buried, the only other mech who had known the details was dead. Tracks had always been grateful to the dead Prince, though he had never been naive enough to believe it had been a selfless act. He had earned the Prince’s assistance, there could be no doubt. Through Tracks’ intelligence, Greyshield had been given a victory over Uraya’s army on a crystal platter, and the Urayan had been freed, and guarded from spymasters and interrogators as thanks for his service. Contrary to the rumours that had never stopped circulated, there had been no love, no romance between them. They had been servant and master, that had been all Tracks had wanted, thankfully it had been all Greyshield had wanted as well.

 

Punch would not take Tracks’ continued presence in Polihex at face value. Jazz would not likely let him loose on Tracks but that did not mean he could not snoop. There were no diaries, nothing of the events in Uraya on record, and there never had been. Greyshield had wanted a servant who would answer to no one but him, that had meant keeping some things close to his chassis. Even having known that, Tracks had gone through every inch of Greyshield’s personal suites, office, and the library itself upon the mech’s death, and he had found nothing. There was nothing for Punch to find, and yet the viceroy did not feel anymore at ease. He thought he would not feel at ease until the former spymaster was gone from Polihex, surely the mech could not stay for long, he never had before, but then his creation had never been the Sovereign Prince, the same one that had only just scarcely avoided being assassinated.

 

Sighing, Tracks looked out the window. The storm outside was not so bad, hardly the worst Tracks had seen since relocating to Polihex’s capital. He looked down at his paint and made a sniff of disgust. Hotwire had only just done it. Her work was good, and it would hold up to considerably more abuse than Tracks ever subjected it to. Still, the thought of subjecting himself to the filth, and cold out the Rains was not all that appealing. Resting the datapad he had been holding on his lap, Tracks stared out the window. There was nothing for Punch to find. Tracks could down the council without a flicker of self-doubt, had carved a spot out for himself in Jazz’s confidence, really he should have had more confidence in his position, but that fact was he did not, and he did not think he could fake it convincingly enough not to attract some attention. If the old spy thought he was hiding something, if Jazz thought he was was, the comfortable life Tracks had fought his way up from nothing to achieve could so easily be stripped away.

 

There was a ping at his door, and Tracks knew who it would be. Servants did not come to his suite unless called for, and the viceroy had done no such thing. Praying to gods both old and new, Tracks sent a command to the door, and it slid open without him ever rising from his seat. To his relief, Jazz was alone. It had seemed unlikely that the Prince would bring his originator to see Tracks but the old spymaster was not the only mech in the palace feeling uncomfortably paranoid. The Urayan did not bother to stand, Jazz had made it clear early on that he loathed pointless servility, and so Tracks only nodded, and gestured to the rarely used chair across the small table from him. His steps light, his mood matching them, Jazz crossed the his neatly kept great room, and joined him by the window.

 

“Thought I’d find ya here,” Jazz said as he sat. “Origin’s goin’ to visit some o’ his old haunts. I know it ain’t been long but do ya got anything on the consorts?”

 

“It happens I do,” Tracks said, keeping his helm up, his field confident and fluid. It was not so much that he wore a mask, as much as his whole persona was a carefully crafted, and carefully practice act. “Trip-Up remains tonsured to a temple in the south, Jackpot to the east. This is significant. Trip-Up’s clanlands are in the north, neighbouring Turbofire’s. Likewise, Jackpot’s clanland’s are to the west.”

 

“Is he Rapier’s kin?” The prince asked.

 

“A distant cousin of some sort,” the Urayan explained. “Not close kin. Young Jackpot was an attendant to Consort Trip-Up before the former’s expulsion. From what I’ve been able to gather, they may have been lovers, though not with official status before Greyshield decided to tonsure Trip-Up. Which makes what he did after he tonsured Jackpot make a bit more sense.”

 

“What’d he do?” Jazz asked.

 

“That law you’ve been trying to get around, your progenitor wrote it,” Tracks revealed. “After Jackpot miscarried, Greyshield decided that no lover, official or otherwise could rise to the status of Consort without emerging a living heir.”

 

“Frag,” the young Polihexian cursed. “Why not try again? What happened?”

 

“I’ve spoken to some of the oldest servants,” the viceroy said. “The lust wore off and Greyshield simply lost his taste for Jackpot. Rapier’s clan was obviously not on board with the law or the tonsuring of their clansmech, so Greyshield made a deal with Turbofire’s progenitor, and once Jackpot was dismissed, Raisonne became consort, a move I think your progenitor regretted before none too long. When he didn’t kindle fast enough, Greyshield began to take steps to tonsure him, except Turbofire, now Lord of his clan, made an ally out of Rapier, and six other councillors, making it impossible for Greyshield to just sweep the decision through. When Raisonne did kindle, your progenitor stopped his attempts to remove him.”

 

“Raisonne probably didn’t forgive’m for it,” Jazz replied.

 

“They were well past good terms, if they’d ever been on them,” Tracks said. “Greyshield never forgave his council for siding with Turbofire, and they openly feuded from then on out.”

 

“Have ya given the temples the news?” The Prince asked. “Are they headed home?”

 

“They were tonsured in temples to Primus,” the Urayan explained. “During the quartex off Mortilus they take a vow of silence. This includes comms. Someone will have to deliver the proclamation personally. I thought I might be the ideal representative.”

 

“Ya wanna go out in that?” Jazz exclaimed, gesturing to the window. “You, Tracks. Come on, I know my origin makes mechanisms jumpy but that’s extreme.”

 

“The High Priests aren’t going to listen to just anyone,” Tracks said. “With a proclamation written by you, and delivered by me, the former consorts can be back in their clanlands before the end of the Festival.”

 

“Ya sure ‘bout this?” The Polihexian asked. “The roads could be impassible. Ya could get stuck in the middle o’ nowhere.”

 

“I can fly,” the viceroy replied, deadpan, gesturing to the white spoiler on his back.

 

“That ain’t a Urayan trick,” Jazz said.

 

“Common enough on Velocitron,” Tracks explained.

 

“Which o’ yer procreators was from off world?” The prince asked.

 

“My progenitor,” the x-frame replied.

 

“What happened to ‘m?” Jazz asked, and Tracks wished, not for the first time, that he could see the mechs optics.

 

“I don’t know,” Tracks said, shrugging his shoulders. It was the truth, not the whole of it, but the truth He had been expecting this question to come, that did not mean he was happy it had. “I was raised an orphan in the harem.”

 

“Slag,” The Polihexian replied. “’M sorry, Tracks. It couldn’tve been easy.”

 

“It wasn’t,” the viceroy confirmed. “But it made it all the easier to leave.”

 

“If yer sure ya wanna go,” Jazz said. “I’ll write that proclamation.”

 

“I’ll be on my way at first light,” Tracks declared.

 

True to his glyph, Jazz sat back, took out a datapad and began to write. Tracks offered input, both asked for and not, and planned. With a few orns of distance, the line of questioning would be a memory, overshadowed by the colour and carnival of the Festival. If he went east first, and then south, Tracks might avoid the worst of the storms. Depending on the weather, he would fly when he could. As much as he wanted some separation between himself and the palace, that did not mean he wanted to linger in the Rains any longer than he had to, Tracks was vainer than he was cowardly. The very moment he returned to the capital, he would book a full spa day at Hotwire’s. Since he was not in the habit of throwing his title around, the femme was generally happy to fit him in, however necessary, a favour to a loyal, and not particularly difficult client, not that anyone would believe Tracks would be easy on his detailer, but he was while he had very exactly standards, he knew better than to snark at an artist. A good detailer, especially a discreet one was worth his, or in this case, her weight in shanix.

 

“If the weather’s too rough, turn back,” the sovereign ordered before they separated. “They’re safe in the temples, ‘n they’ll be safe a few more orns, worse comes to worse. I don’t wanna have to tryin’ replace ya.”

 

“I won’t do anything to ruin my paint,” the Urayan said. “I know I’m indispensable.”

 

He was not, but Jazz chuckled, and clapped him on the shoulder, the field, and the face of a friend. In that moment, Tracks felt his spark seize, and it took all of his willpower to keep his face smooth, and his field calm and arrogant. Greyshield had been his master, he a loyal servant, and Tracks had never really anticipated that the status quo would not carry over to Jazz. How had it happened without the viceroy realizing it? Worse still, how did Tracks miss that he had come to feel... attached to Jazz, invested in his future, his survival, his happiness, not for the sake of Polihex but for the mech himself. It was more important than ever that the Urayan get some distance. Tracks needed to regroup, gather himself and think. Friendship was something he had denied himself his entire existence, he had acquaintances, and allies throughout in the capital, but friends? Primus no, it was no less risky in Polihex than it had been in the harem, and when Tracks considered it now, it seemed all the riskier here. In Polihex, the viceroy had far more to lose. But how did he step back now? How did he put professional distance between himself and Jazz without losing the influence he had cultivated? The security?

 

Jazz treated him like an equal, something Greyshield would never have considered, and after living his entire existence as less than, it was hard, very hard to consider forcing himself back into a fully subservient role, even if that was his proper place. There... there was no reason he could not maintain this new status quo. Friends asked more questions than masters, but that did not mean Tracks was doomed. He would take his time, use this disgusting trip to master his half truths until his story would stand up to any questions, until it was so well rehearsed, and so well mastered that it even felt like the truth to himself. Yes, he had outmanoeuvred Turbofire, the Consort, and every noble and courtier in the court from the very mega-cycle he had arrived in Polihex, he would keep outmanoeuvring them, and he would sidestep Jazz as required. Nothing important had changed. Tracks had built himself a comfortable life here in Polihex, he would not lose it without a fight, and if the fight was too much? He had more than enough funds store on the credit chip hidden in his habsuite to let him live in luxury anywhere on Cybertron.

 

***

 

The first mega-cycles of an investigation were always the most important, and with the odds of truly resolving this particular case already poor, Prowl poured his focus into scouring even the finest, most insignificant piece of evidence, just in case, just in the hopes that he might pull an answer from the abyss. Despite his zeal, and despite his phenomenal tactical systems, the Praxian found nothing in the crime scene or the frame the gave him any investigatory path to take. He knew no more this mega-cycle than he had the dark-cycle before. The would be assassin was Tarnian, an amateur thug, not a skilled professional. They were being careful about releasing too much information on the offender. It was imperative that the assorted citizens of Polihex not turn on their Tarnian neighbours. Why the mech’s image was shown during the canvass, the Enforcers were saying as little as they could to the press, for now.

 

“Your Highness... Vigilum Secondus, there’s a witness who’s asking to speak to you,” an Enforcer interrupted Prowl as he scoured the murder board yet again. He fidgeted under Prowl’s stare. “He asked for you by designation.”

 

“Would you put him in one of the interrogation rooms?” Prowl asked, turning back to the murder board, not quite willing to end his current analysis. “I will join him shortly.”

 

Prowl did make his way to the interrogation room only a bream after speaking to the officer. The results had been no different than any of his previous analyzes, they would need more data, something knew before they could carry the investigation any further. Metaforensics were scouring the mech’s subspace, and questioning every mechanism that lived or worked in the district, they were doing all they could to find that critical piece of evidence. Curious as to why this witness wished to speak to him personally, and just what he had to say, the Praxian did not delay passed concluded his analysis, and though he did not race to the room where the witness was waiting, he did not precisely stroll either. As he walked from the situation room, where the greater part of the investigation was being operated from, Prowl was keenly aware of the glances, and straight out stares he received from the Enforcers present. Most of these Enforcers had not been in the press room for the ceremony, they were too low on the chain of command, and while they had been told he was a skilled Enforcer, a commanding officer in his own right in his homeland, they did not know him, and what they did know was that he did not know Polihex, and he imagined they were quite unsure not only of his position leading this investigation, but more specifically his position as Vigilum Secondus.

 

It caught Prowl by some way of surprise to have two of his “guard” meet him at the interrogation room. Tempest opened the door for Prowl, as Hosehead stood ramrod straight on the other side of the doorway. Surely they did not anticipate he would be attacked within the walls of the Enforcer station. No, such a thing was exceedingly low on the scale of probability, but Prowl could not come up with a reason to dismiss them. Jazz, for one, the Praefectus Vigilium for the other would both be displeased, and without a good argument, the Praxian had no choice but to accept his shadows. They would relax in time, he hoped. Prowl thought he would feel smothered before long if he was never free of their presence. Setting that thought aside, the Enforcer prince entered the interrogation room. He immediately recognized the elderly mech seated at the table. As the old mech began to stand, no doubt to bow, Prowl raised his servos.

 

“Please do not trouble yourself, Sir,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

 

“An Enforcer showed me that... mech’s image this light-cycle,” the grocer explained. “I recognized him, and I thought... I thought I’d tell you myself since I don’t want it to get lost. Lots of my neighbours are Tarnian, the block over’s got a whole hoard of them, and their good mechanisms. Not saying that those mechs over in Tarn are all bad but my neighbours are good mechanisms and they don’t need that fragtard stirring up slag and getting mob with pipes and blaster burning down their homes.”

 

“Tell me everything you remember of him,” Prowl ordered. “There is no insignificant detail.”

 

“He came into my store, that mech,” the old mech explained. “Two different ‘cycles. Once just an orn before... it happened, and once the light-cycle before. Had to resort to some chirolinguistics, and servo gestures. Wasn’t just his accent, he just didn’t speak Polihexian, or even much Common Neocybex. I offered to bring a neighbour around to translate but he got nasty with me. I might’ve thrown him out but I’m old, and he had some Cyberglyphic brands, looked like he’d tried to cover’em up but he just splashed some paint over them, but I could still read’m clear. Gang markings, I thought. I didn’t want trouble. Next time he came in he had fresh paint, and no brands.”

 

“Do you have surveillance footage?” The Praxian asked.

 

“Yessir, I do,” the grocer confirmed. “I handed them over before I came up.”

 

“Excellent, thank you for coming to speak with me,” Prowl replied.

 

“He wasn’t one of us,” the elderly Polihexian said, with conviction. “Show his face ‘round to my neighbours and they’ll say the same.”

 

“We will,” the Enforcer Prince assured. “Do you believe you might be able to sketch the brands you saw?”

 

“Not much of an artist, not much of a Polihexian, heh,” the mech said. “I can scribble them, I think. Might have a shot on the recording I gave the metaforensics.”

 

From his subspace, Prowl withdrew a datapad, and a stylus, and handed both over to the grocer. The old mech immediately hunch over the table and set to scribbling and erasing and scribbling again as he tried to reproduce the brands he had seen. Prowl sat still in his chair, and let his processor mull over this new data. With a narrowed timeline, the chore of scouring the Transport Hubs’ surveillance footage was considerably less daunting. It was unlikely that this mech drove all the way from Tarn, and while it would still be no small task, with the help of air traffic records, they might find the exact footage of the mech’s arrival. They might find a designation, but it was unlikely to be more than an alias. They might catch the assassin’s patron(s) yet.

 

“It’s not great but I think it’s pretty accurate,” the old mech declared, and he handed Prowl the datapad. “It’s not pretty...”

 

“It is enough for one of the gang experts to identify,” Prowl replied. He was not being generous, while not at all pretty, the stylized Cyberglyphics were clear enough, though the Praxian could not read them himself. “Thank you for coming. Is your grand-creation doing well after his ordeal?”

 

“Like nothing happened,” the grocer explained. “He’s little yet, he doesn’t understand. But he remembers an Enforcer found his sheepacron for him.”

 

“Oh?” The Praxian said, with real surprise.

 

“He’s always drawing,” the old mech said. “And digit painting. My creation’s place is a mess with his little works of art, so’s mine. I asked him what he was drawing this light-cycle, told me it was you.”

 

“I am honoured,” Prowl replied.

 

“I had my doubts, an Official Amica working, especially as an Enforcer,” the mech said. “Had my doubts about a Prince from frag knows where running the Polihex, but I was wrong on both counts. You’re good mechanisms. We’re lucky for both you, Your Highness, and His Serene Highness.”

 

“We will both endeavour not to let you down,” the Enforcer promised, meaning the glyphs.

 

“Even if you do,” the grocer replied. “You’re young, the pair of you, you’ve got mistakes to make, we all do. You’ll make up for them. I’ve got faith.”

 

As he showed the old mech out, Prowl considered his last glyphs, even as the tacticial Enforcer mulled the statement he had been given. He loathed to make mistakes, though he had made many of them, especially when it came to interacting with his procreator, none had been forgiven. The suggestion that the old mech expected mistakes, not just from him, but also Jazz, and was prepared to forgive them, was interesting. Prowl doubted this absolution was not unlimited, some mistakes were simply to great to forgive, but still. Perhaps the mech’s sentiments were not uncommon, perhaps Polihexian, both native and new understood the fallibility of all mechanisms, and perhaps they did not expect perfection from their Prince, and his... lover. Of course, he already knew that Jazz did not expect perfection, and the Praxian did not expect perfection of Jazz but it was not in Prowl to strive for anything less of himself in perhaps too many realms in his life, doomed to fail or no. The old mechs glyphs, though they circled through his helm, would not make a sudden shift in the Praxian’s expectations of himself, but perhaps when he found himself struggling, he might remember them.

 

Casting those glyphs aside, the Enforcer prince added the information he had learned to the murder board, and sent a copy of the sketch to the organized crime division. He would make mistakes, but not here. Prowl was determined to take every bit of training and every hard lesson and use it all to direct this investigation, to ensure that no corners were taken, and nothing was overlooked. If they did not identify the mech, if they did not identify his employer(s) it would not be through lack of skill, and it would not be through any failings, it would be because the evidence was not there to be found. Processor set on this, ATS roaring along at top speed, Prowl gave the narrowed timeline to the team watching the Hub’s surveillance footage, and he gave Calculus the latest update. Though the Praefectus Vigilum has said he had trusted Prowl with the investigation, the prince still thought it best to keep him appraised of new developments. He did all of this without ever leaving the murder board. It was not long before he was lost in the intersecting threads that made up the web that was this case. And as he had many times in his career, he lost all track of time.

 

“Prowl?” It was Jazz’s voice that pulled Prowl out of his analyzes.

 

“Jazz?” He said. As his processor settled on the here and now, Prowl realized that the joor was quite a bit later than he had been meant to stop, and returned... home. “I apologize. I have kept you waiting.”

 

“Ya looked focused,” the Polihexian replied. “So I left ya a little longer. Is it an okay place to stop?”

 

“Yes,” Prowl said, after just a quick moment’s consideration. He could not really do anymore this dark-cycle. “Again, I apologize.”

 

“None o’ that,” Jazz chastised him, gently. “Y’re workin’ hard, ‘n doin’ it for me. Praefectus Calculus told me ya got a lead.”

 

“The grocer, the elderly mech with the lttle grand-mechling, he encountered the suspect,” the Enforcer prince explained. “Twice, in fact. During their first encounter, he noticed poorly disguised gang markings. If the gang is not too obscure, we may yet find who hired him, or if it was an initiation into a gang. Evidence is leaning to the suggestion that he came to Polihex specifically to kill you, he was not an immigrant.”

 

“Not one o’ us,” the sovereign said, with a nod of his helm. “If it ain’t against some protocols, will ya give me a copy o’ those gang markings? The Spymasters might know’em if their from outside o’ Polihex.”

 

“I will send you the file,” Prowl acquiesced. It may not have been official protocol, but this whole investigation was a rather grey thing.

 

“Thank you,” Jazz replied. He paused for a moment and Prowl felt a burst of foreboding. Finally, the Polihexian spoke. “So, we got company for fuel-break.”

 

“Have some of your council returned?” The Praxian asked.

 

“My origin,” the Polihexian explained.

 

“Oh,” Prowl replied, struck momentarily dumb, he recovered quickly. “You suggested he would not come to Polihex.”

 

“I didn’t think he would,” Jazz said. “He surprised me. Will ya fuel with us?”

 

“It would be my honour,” the prince replied. Though he spoke without inflection, he was not at all at ease with fuelling with Jazz’s originator, on the contrary, internally he was absolutely panicked.

 

End Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14

Never in Prowl’s entire existence had he care how his finish looked. This dark-cycle, however he was deeply regretting the he had lost track of time, and worked so late. There would be no time to visit his washracks and touch up the scuffs and dull patches of his plating. Feelings of self-consciousness rose, clashing with the tactician’s renewed self-confidence. He did not want to meet Punch, not now, maybe not ever. Prowl felt certain that he would fall well below the originator’s standards. As an Enforcer the Praxian knew he could rise above anyone’s expectations, but him, not Enforcer Prowl, but simple Prowl? No, he had never lived up to anyone’s standards. They had never said anything, but the prince knew he had disappointed his brothers, and Mirage, had let them down. If it was not his work, he was of little good. The thought twisted his spark.

 

“Oh Prowl,” Jazz crooned. They stood at the bottom of the palace steps. Prowl was about to take a step but Jazz drew him to him and kissed the corner of his optic. The self-deprecating thoughts slowed, and when the sovereign cupped his faceplates and pressed their helms together. He melted. His own servos slipped up and covered the Polihexian’s wrist.

 

“I am sorry,” Prowl said, a little sad, a little tired.

 

“So ‘m I,” the sovereign replied. “Sorry ya been beaten down so bad. Give ‘m a chance, Prowler. He’ll give ya a fair one, I promise.”

 

“I am not what he would have wanted for you,” the Praxian said.

 

“No,” Jazz admitted, and Prowl was relieved he had not tried to lie. “But Prowl that don’t mean there’s anythin’ wrong with ya. Ya aren’t gonna disappoint him. He’ll give ya a fair shot. Will ya give him one, give yerself one too?”

 

“I will,” Prowl replied. “I will try.”

 

“Y’re worth more than ya think,” the Polihexian said as he stepped back. “Not just ‘cause y’re a fraggin’ brilliant Enforcer. But ‘cause y’re dedicated, ‘n givin’, ‘n wise.”

 

“Thank you,” the prince was barely able to choke out the glyphs. Jazz meant it. There was no doubt, as the Polihexian’s field brushed against his. He was absolutely sincere.

 

“Let’s go in,” Jazz said, taking Prowl’s arm.

 

He did not want a burden, but he knew he was, at least and emotional one. Prowl had never thought himself as fragile, or vulnerable, but then he had spent his entire adult life running from his emotions. There was nowhere left to run now. Maybe that was good, maybe being forced to address the scars lifetime of neglect and trauma would benefit Prowl in the end, but in this instance the idea was daunting. Jazz was there, already stubbornly collecting his broken pieces. Would he get tired of it? Tired of Prowl? As if he knew the thoughts circling through Prowl’s helm, Jazz pulled pulled him tighter, bombarding him with reassurance and praise. Maybe the Polihexian was not what Prowl would have chosen for himself, though he had never actually entertained having a choice, but he would never have pictured Veneer picking such a kind mech for him, not that he had intended for it to be Jazz, not that he could have known that Jazz would be kind. Truth be told, his procreator would be deeply displeased when he discovered the Sovereign Prince’s nature. That thought brightened Prowl’s mood. Polihex had been everything for the him that Veneer would never have intended.

 

“So ya got’m away from his work?” An unfamiliar voice spoke from the shadows as Polihexian and Praxian entered the private dining room Jazz and he had been using for the last couple of orns.

 

“Origin!” Jazz said. “Thought ya might’ve wondered off. Come on, I’d like to introduce ya proper.”

 

This mech looked nothing like Prowl had visualized. Punch’s paint was considerably brighter than his creation’s. He was yellow, blue, and black with distinct red servos. It startled the Praxian that he had been able to blend so well into shadows, especially with all these colours. He was obviously an exceedingly dangerous operative, and the fact that he had so easily surprised Prowl told him how distracted he had been by his own thoughts, something that was a longstanding, but bad habit. Punch did as he was asked and walked over, loose limbed, mouth turned in a smile the prince could not decide was friendly or threatening. As the mech approached, Prowl stood straight, and completely still. Jazz’s servo remained on his back, reassuring him? Reassuring his originator? It occurred to the Praxian that he really ought to smile, but he was afraid the expression would look more like a grimace so he kept his expressive passive.

 

“Origin, Prowl ‘o Praxus,” the sovereign said. “Prowl, my origin, Punch... Origin... am I ‘sposed to give ya a title or somethin’.”

 

“Please don’t,” Punch replied, in a rich voice. “Prowl, it’s good to meet ya. I understand ya saved my mechlin’.”

 

“My attendant was largely responsible,” Prowl deferred. “He spotted the assailant.”

 

“Ya really outta take more credit,” the spy chastised, with a chortle. “’M grateful for what ya did, ‘n for yer attendant. Jazz is precious to me.”

 

“He is irreplaceable,” the Praxian answered without thinking. Behind straight lipplates, he gritted his denta. That was not at all what he had meant to say. Both mech looked at him, stared at him, and he wanted nothing more than to disappear.

 

“He is,” Punch said, a true smile slowly spread across his face. “He really is.”

 

“So’re ya,” Jazz said, softly. “Been a long ‘cycle, for ya especially, Prowl. Let’s sit ‘n fuel.”

 

Prowl was struck by the other’s statement, that he might genuinely believe it. He did not exactly set the thought aside, but he did put the bulk of his processing power to the conversation at hand, and the meal. It was not even particularly difficult to do, he was starving. Despite painfully low fuel levels, the Praxian took care not to inhale his fuel. The vorns in his procreator’s court had taught Prowl how to keep face, and he sipped at his fuel, and politely nibbled on his gels and oil cakes, and he listened to the story Jazz had teased his originator into telling. They loved each other, and it actually hurt to witness. There was a longing in the prince’s spark, and he missed his brothers, excruciatingly so. Perhaps their procreator no, originator had despised them, despised him, but they had always loved him, he would always love them, and maybe it did not exactly ease all the anguish that came from being hated by the spark that had carried you, but it was a worthy balm.

 

“What’s the most bizarre case ya ever solved?” Punch asked as his own story ended.

 

That was... an unexpected question. He had been asked to speak of his most difficult, or his most dangerous investigations, but bizarre was an interesting glyph, and he thought hard on it. Bizarre... Not dangerous, not hideous, bizarre... Not a murder, plenty had been ghastly but Prowl thought that Punch was perfectly familiar with unusual deaths. Finally, one particular investigation came to his processor. It was not one where there was any loss of life, one that should not have ever come into his servos in particular. Not a murder, or a kidnapping, or anything quite so frightening, but a theft. As Commander of the Criminal Intelligence Division and acting Praefectus Vigilum, the investigation of a mere theft should not have been put in his servos, but the victims had been members of the court, and he had owed some of that cluster of esteemed mechanism something of a debt. The responsibilities of Praefectus Vigilum given to him over the Enforcers of the Praxian Empire had not been given at the command of his Imperial procreator, but rather the Temple of Justice, which was overseen by the High Priests of Epistemus and Solomus. Veneer had resisted but if there was one group honoured as much as the Emperor in Praxus, it was the Priesthood, and their glyphs could not be ignored, not when the court echoed their call. It had been the Emperor’s stubborn refusal that had seen the title of Praefectus Vigilum go to one of his puppets, but all the Enforcers of Praxus had known who their true commander was, title or no title.

 

“I personally investigated perhaps the oddest theft in the empire’s history,” Prowl said as he remembered the case. “Technically it was a series of thefts. Largely by this point the investigations directly in my servos were violent crimes, but in this particular case, the victims were one of the oldest, and wealthiest noble families in Praxus. As such it was considered inappropriate for a common Enforcer to interview the victims, and so I took the case. The family had, over vorns, become reclusive, and had refused to come to the capital to be interviewed. I journeyed several stellar-cycles from the capital to their estate. Even upon my arrival it was not straight forward. I was not granted admission for another mega-cycle. They believed I was a fraud, a member of some evil organization set to rob them off their credits, and even their lives. When I was rejected at the door I was directed by one of the servants to the mech who had reported the theft, the black sheepacron of the family, the youngest son.”

 

“Someone robbed’em but not a cabal,” Jazz suggested.

 

“You are correct,” the Praxian confirmed. “A fraudulent clairvoyant that had been taken into the inner circle of the heads of the family had been stealing credits for several vorns, all while convincing his victims that members of their very family, specifically those that spoke out against the clairvoyant were members of the cabal. Before terribly long, none of the victims would leave the estate, by the time I began my investigation they would not even leave the manor house. I was able to unmask the clairvoyant as the fraud he was but he had already successfully drained all the family credit chips. So under the clairvoyant’s spell the victims funded his legal defence. It was not successful, and they finally saw they had been had. I was able to track down some of the missing funds, but most had been spent. The family will be rebuilding for a generation if not longer.”

 

“I think sometimes the mechanisms with the most credits got the least sense,” Punch chuckled. “Good on their creation for sticking up for’em when they were knockin’m down. Don’t sound like they deserved ‘m.”

 

“They did not thank him, in any case,” Prowl revealed. “The trial was a very public humiliation. My last contact with him was post trial when he was leaving the province to make his own way.”

 

“Probably best for’m,” Jazz declared. “Evil cabals ‘n fraudulent mediums. Sounds like somethin’ outta a serial drama.”

 

“Had I not investigated the case myself, I would have doubted its veracity,” the prince said.

 

The remainder of the meal was spent sharing entertaining stories. From the antics of a young Jazz, to the humorous near misses of Punch. Laughter came easily to the Polihexians, and the mood was infectious. It did not happen quickly, but as the originator was sharing the story of Jazz becoming stuck on the ceiling the first time he used his magnets, Prowl caught himself chuckling at the image. In turn, the Praxian shared the story of the time he had become trapped in the closest while engaging in a came of tear ‘n chase with Bluestreak and Smokescreen. It had been the eldest of the three of them that had launched these games. On that particular mega-cycle it had taken his brothers four joors to find him. Both Jazz and Punch laughed, and Prowl discovered he did not mind being the the butt of a joke, so long as he was the one telling it.

 

“What’d ya end up doin’?” The younger Polihexian asked. “Ya didn’t call for help?”

 

“I became absorbed in an analysis I was running,” Prowl explained. “I did not realize how much time had passed until my brothers finally found me. They had been half frantic, and at the sight of them. When they did find me, I rather blandly asked how they had found me so quickly. Only when the pulled themselves up off the floor once they stopped laughing did they tell me how long it had been.”

 

“That’d been the a sight,” the spymech chuckled. “Mighta been a good trick to get some work done in the quiet.”

 

“I may have become more adept at hiding for exactly that purpose,” the Praxian confessed. “It only made Bluestreak more determined to find me, and Smokescreen a bit more exasperated. I learned I could only stay hidden for two joors at most before my brothers became anxious, and I also made it a habit to ensure it was Bluestreak who found me most often. Both knew it.”

 

“Jazz always seemed to enjoy hidin’ more ‘n seekin’,” Punch revealed. “Ever lookin’ for ‘m, look up.”

 

“Traitor,” Jazz said, without heat. “One o’ these ‘cycles I’ll have to take ya to my favourite perch, Prowl. Provided ya ain’t afraid o’ heights.”

 

“Provided you remember I do not have magnets in my servos,” Prowl replied.

 

Despite the late joor, the three mechs lingered over their fuel. It was evident that Jazz and his originator shared a close bond. Punch was clearly the source of his creation’s sense of humour, and joie-de-vivre. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism, something that made living your life on the edge of death easier. Meeting Punch allowed Prowl to form a greater understanding of Jazz, and an even greater appreciation. Anyone could see how much originator and creation loved each other, how comfortable they were with each other. Despite how much they had clearly missed each other, they did not exclude him, and they did not begrudge his presence. Prowl felt as though he belonged in this moment, he did belong in this moment, and it was a wonderful feeling.

 

By the time they stood from the table, he was feeling utterly exhausted. After originator and creation hugged, Punch made his way to Prowl and the Praxian extended his servo. The other mech took it, clasped Prowl on the shoulder and shook his servo. For a moment the prince was afraid Punch would hug him, and he was really not at all comfortable with the idea, but instead the spy lightly brushed Prowl’s field with his, expressing his thanks, and his welcome. It was clear, very suddenly that Punch had been containing the full extent of his feelings regarding the attempt of Jazz’s life, likely for his creation’s benefit. Prowl nodded his helm, accepting the thanks, and the welcome. He only hesitated a nanoklik before he let his own deep sense of relief bubble over into his field. The spy smiled

 

“This one’s tired, love,” Punch said as he released Prowl. “I’ll see ya in the light-cycle. Lookin’ forward to talkin’ wit ya again, Prowl.”

 

“See ya in the light-cycle, Origin,” Jazz replied.

 

“It was good to meet you, sir,” Prowl said.

 

“Likewise,” the yellow and blue Polihexian replied. “No workin’ now, get some ‘charge!”

 

Prowl had not thought of where he would recharge, in his berth or Jazz’s, and he had made no plans at all. Tired as he was, he let Jazz lead him. He found himself at the Polihexian’s door, and did not resist being led inside, through the sitting room, and into the berthroom. At this stage he seemed to recharge in this berth more than his own, but it was just as comfortable, and the company did actually make it preferable at the moment, and maybe even in general. Glyphlessly, the prince crawled into what he had come to think of as his side of the berth. The last dark-cycle’s brief recharge cycle had hardly been the shortest he had ever experienced, but Prowl could not deny he was running on fumes. It was not the mega-cycles work, or the short recharge alone responsible, but the effort of processing all the emotions that had reverberated through his spark.

 

“Ya okay to work tomorrow?” Jazz asked, touching his shoulder, an expression of concern on his face.

 

 

“I am well,” Prowl replied, helm on the pillow he had claimed, optics dull as recharge protocols rose to the forefront of his HUD. “There is time enough to get an adequate recharge.”

 

“Okay,” the Polihexian said. “If ya still feel worn out in the light-cycle, say somethin’.”

 

“I will,” the prince replied.

 

He had no intention of doing anything of the sort, but he could hardly say that to Jazz. Enforcer work often meant long light-cycles, and short dark-cycles. Prowl was familiar with the phenomenon, though he could not remember being quite this exhausted in a very long time, perhaps his frame had become spoiled. A solid recharge, and a half joor’s meditation in the light-cycle would set him right. Jazz chuckled, and Prowl guessed he knew the Praxian had lied through his denta, but he did not argue the point. Instead he brushed a kiss against Prowl’s cheekplate, and made himself comfortable, close, but not so close as to intrude on the prince’s space. A little processor addled, the prince decided he was not close enough, half way to recharge already, his restraint and caution were gone, and so Prowl inched a little closer, until he curled up against the Polihexian’s shoulder. Before he could drifted the rest of the way off, he felt Jazz’s helm turn so it lay against his, and Prowl smiled a whisper of a smile as he cycled down to recharge.

 

***

 

Jackpot showed his gratitude for being liberated by driving off at top speed, set to rejoin his family on the coast before the Festival of Mortilus arrive. The viceroy was not particularly perturbed, although a spark felt thank you would have been the mannerly thing to do. Escorting Jackpot home, as Tracks had been prepared to do would have taken considerable time, and considerable exposure to the elements, and so the Urayan was happy enough to be spared the task. Maybe it would have been noble or dutiful of him to chase after the former consort, but Tracks had given Jackpot the coordinates of hotels along the way, and he had highlighted those with access to long range communicators. One of those establishments was only a short drive from the Temple. Within the joor the mech would no doubt be there, armed with Jazz’s credits, and making contact with his semi-distant cousin, Lord Rapier, and the rest of his kin.

 

Tracks understood the desperation Jackpot felt to make as much distance from his holy prison as quickly as possible. The Urayan had barely taken a vent as Greyshield and his entourage, himself included, had slipped from the Palace on the Steps, and fled into the dark-cycle. He had barely ventilated until he had been in Polihex for a vorn. Yes, Tracks understood Jackpot’s hurry, and he also understood the mech’s desire for privacy, and for freedom. Privacy had been none existent in the harem, every hideous moment of your life on display, while the nature of that life would have been different in the Temple, it would have been no less controlled, and no less public.

 

There were kilometres to drive, and to fly if Tracks was going to get Trip-Up home to his kin before the Festival began, and so the Urayan turned his back to the temple, and took off. Winds buffeted him as soon as he was airborne. Though the rains had stopped in eastern Polihex, the clouds remained overcast, and the winds strong. Tracks flew over the river that bisected Polihex, separating north from South. He only managed a joor’s flight before he was forced to land, and drive on. The very instant Tracks set off again, this time on wheels, the skies opened. Brief as the flight was, it had saved him several hours worth of driving, so it was not a total waste. But there was considerable distance left to drive, and the skies did not look like they planned on letting up any time soon. A little rain was not hard to drive in, but this was not a little rain, quite the contrary, and Tracks had no choice but to pull off at the first town he saw.

 

It was abundantly obvious the very instant the viceroy turned off that this little community served more as a Convoy stop than anything else, and as such the lodgings were going to be well below his standards. Tracks was not a fool, however and he considered common lodgings considerably more appealing than camping out in the rain. The streets were largely empty, all sensible mechanisms were inside. Sensible as he intended to be, the Urayan looked about, trying to find the village inn. Finally he spotted it, and Tracks turned off. There was a parking lot, not something you saw many places, but the Convoys that would have served as the bulk of their patrons outside of the Rains generally left their loads outside when they bunked for the dark-cycle. As it was the wet season, there parking lot was nearly empty. A single trailer, fitted with windows was parked, the passengers would be with the Convoy, inside. Tracks felt a surge of trepidation.

 

He loathed to be stuck with strangers, loathed to be towered over by far larger mechanisms. For a klik Tracks considered driving on. If the map loaded in his HUD was accurate, the next community was a considerable drive away, across a bridge list as at risk of washing out. The energon river that ran all the way from Kalis and south into Polihex was threatening to breech its banks. There were no communities in immediate danger, but it certainly hampered the Urayan’s plans. Of course he could fly over any flooded out bridges, unlike most grounders, Tracks was not stuck on the ground, but the rain really was relentless, and driving on would definitely be reckless. A mixture of rain and hail bounced off his shoulders, dripped through the gaps in his arm, and into his protoform, cementing his decision. Tracks would be an utter mess if he stayed out in this, he had to consider his paint! Frowning, the viceroy held out his arms, and turned them. While there was no peeling yet, his finished had faded considerably. He clenched his fists, if he was not careful, the rain really might eat through his finish, and his paint, and he shuddered at the thought. Anxiety over his paint outweighed the anxiety over the presence of strangers, and he made his way over to the inn’s doors.

 

“Oh aren’t you soaked!” A yellow and red Polihexian called to him from the front desk. “Get in side, don’t worry about dripping, it’s a lost cause in this weather.”

 

“Thank you,” Tracks said. “I’m hoping to rent a habsuite, if you have any to rent.”

 

“That we do,” the innkeeper replied. “Welcome to the Inn at the Crossroads. I’m Free Wheeler. You can imagine this isn’t our busiest seasons. We’ve only got a couple of guests, a maestro ‘n his crew on their way to the capital. Which way are you headed?”

 

“North,” the viceroy replied, as he handed over his credit chip and booked the room. On a whim, he handed the innkeeper his personal chip, not the one authorized to him from the treasury. Anonymity, for whatever reason, was something he was suddenly craving. “My designation is Tracks.”

 

“Ya might be stuck a few ‘cycle then, roads impassible, just a few hours up, tree fall needs to be cleared, Tracks,” Free Wheeler said.

 

“I might stay until the storm weakens,” Tracks replied, not that he liked the idea much at all. “I have some room in my schedule.”

 

“Wise choice,” the innkeeper said, passing over a keycard. “We’ve a dining room if you’re needing fuel.”

 

“Do you provide room service?” The Urayan asked. “I prefer to fuel while I work.”

 

“Whatever you need,” Free Wheeler replied. “There’s a console in your suite. Just put your order in and someone will bring it up. You can call the desk if you need anything else. The solvent runs hot, I think you’re looking forward to a shower.”

 

“There’s no doubt aboutthat,” Tracks said. “Thank you. If someone could bring up hot energon in a joor, and a plate of gels.”

 

“Absolutely, Tracks,” the Polihexian replied. “Your suite is just up the stairs. We don’t have elevators, not worth it with just three stories.”

 

“That won’t be a problem,” the viceory said.

 

The inn was was only three stories, but it sprawled. On the lower level, the suites had doors directly onto the street, and it did not look like there were that many of them. How many had he counted, five? Those doors had been spread well apart, which suggested the suites were large. But that would make sense, the inn was geared towards Convoys, after all. You could fit a standard size mechanisms in a Convoy sized suite, but you could not do the reverse. Tracks walked up the stairs, feeling uncomfortable. Whether it was the strange inn, or the acid rain soaking his frame, he could not say, and the viceroy did not expend any processor power trying to answer that question. It hardly matter. Showers had always been therapeutic to him, after a joor under the spray, Tracks knew he would feel restored.

 

“Lemme get outta your way,” a booming voice said, and Tracks could not help but flinch. He looked up. The mech coming down the stairs looked huge, at twice Track’s size. It took every millilitre of his pride to keep the viceroy from turning and running. As he watched, vocalizer mute, the big red and white mech stepped to the side, enough that Tracks could duck under his arm, and the Urayan x-frame said nothing as he darted under the mech’s arm, and up the steps passed him. Not Urayan, not a Convoy, a cassette-carrier, but that did not make him less frightening. Did Tracks not look back when he reached the top of the stairs, and as soon as he turned the corner, as soon as he was out of the mech’s line of sight he ran to his assigned suite.

 

***

 

Jazz had had no shortage of lovers over his adult life, but recharging with them had rarely been possible, and never wise. The heat of Prowl’s frame against his arm was nice, really nice. He worried for the mech, his lover seemed to have pushed himself to the brink of collapse, and Jazz was fearful that one recharge would not be enough to bring him back up to full strength. It was a relief to see how quickly Origin had warmed to him, and at least the sovereign was not going to have to worry about fighting that battle. Punch would still test him, watch him, that was Origin’s way. But much like his creation, the seasoned spy had a soft spot for the battered and abused, he had been one of them after all, back when he had been a sparkling in the old Dead End. Vorns later, he and Jazz had lived in the slums of Uraya, or Kalis, and sometimes Kaon, not just because Punch could most naturally mimic those accents, but because all the while serving his function to Polihex, he could also level the field a little for those neighbours who had less than nothing. It had not mattered to Punch that they had been Urayan, or Kalisite, or Kaonite.

 

It would not matter to Punch that Prowl was Praxian, and it would not really even matter that he was a prince. Just as Jazz could see them, his origin would come to see his scars, he had probably already caught a few of them. The mech was strong, though Jazz knew Prowl felt weak. They had taken a few wrong turns, mostly Jazz’s mistakes, and though he wished he could do the last quartex over, all he could do was move forward. He had no doubt that this was going to be the mech he bonded to, simply because he could not see any other path. Oddly the Prince did not feel stifled by this, or particularly intimidated. One thing he was good at was going with the flow, tweaking the course along the way as needed. Jazz had not quite given up on getting around that fragging law, but without the backing of his council, he knew it would not happen, and they were not going to back him, not in enough numbers. Each lord would prefer one of their kin to be consort, and they were just not going to end their machinations because Jazz told them to. Pit, they had not been that deferential to his ‘genitor, they most certainly would not be cowed by him.

 

That left kindling. They had done nothing to avoid it happening the few time they had interfaed, thank you millions of stellar-cycles’ old law. Since contraceptive codes had been written, they had been denied to the concubines and consorts of the tribal chiefs, and then the Princes of Polihex. A clear line of succession was important, wars had been fought over it time and again. Despite being young still, Jazz knew his subjects would all be watching for the announcement. Until they did, they would all if the creation had inherited the progenitor’s deficiencies. Frequent miscarriages were not automatically a fault in the would be originator, it could also be fault in the progenitor, especially in contributive on contributive kindling. Both Jackpot and Trip-Up, and Greyshield had been contributive, both consorts had miscarried which had cast a shadow of suspicion on the dead Prince’s potency. Raisonne and Jazz’s own origin had receptive sparks, there sparks had been the only ones hot enough to bring a newling to emergence. Perhaps the receptive nature of his spark was part of the reason his ‘genitor had agreed to bond with Raisonne. It made a fair bit of sense.

 

It was no secret that Prowl had a receptive spark, which was likely to make kindling easier. But it was not in Jazz’s spark to ask him to actively try. They had not interfaced since the Praxian had been hurt, and they had not talked about it either. That had probably been a mistake. Knowing that he had hurt Prowl had frightened Jazz, knowing that Prowl had hidden it, and been ready to go to considerable lengths just to not tell him had frightened Jazz’s even more. He had talk to Prowl, convince him that it was not just his pleasure that matter, but the Praxian’s as well. Some how the prince had to convince him that he wanted no part in any pleasure that came at the expense of the his lover’s frame.

 

Odds were Prowl was not carrying yet, and despite what he should have been hoping, for the sake of his reign, Jazz had to hope this was the case. A spark was likeliest to kindle when it was running hot, primed with a steady diet of overloads over an extended period of time until one lit the proverbial fuse. They had only interfaced three times. Kindling from just one interface was possible, but it was unlikely given their sparks had not been involved. Knowing how dubious Prowl was of carrying, knowing how dubious he himself was of sparking the mech, the Polihexian thought a bit of abstinence was probably not a bad thing. He was conflicted as to whether or not this might be the best way to continue, however. Interface was something he enjoyed, unsurprising, and Jazz hoped, hope more than a little desperately that the Praxian really did enjoy their interfaces, that he looked forward to them. But he was a little sick at the idea that Prowl might just have faked it, just to please him. Even if the prince did not enjoy it, he would still probably be upset if Jazz did not seek him, because he was so fearful about not pleasing the sovereign.

 

There was no question, they were going to need to talk. Not now, no, Prowl needed his rechrge. Right this nanoklik Jazz would relax, take a bit of comfort that Prowl wanted to recharge, curled against his side. He liked the weight of the Praxian’s helm on his shoulder, liked it a lot. Maybe because it let him know Prowl was safe and comfortable, maybe that made Jazz feel safe, and comfortable too. Listening to the other mech’s ventilations, the Polihexian relaxed more and more. His helm fell the side, against Prowl’s, and Jazz vented a restful sigh. Despite the stresses the had been piling up, he relaxed, and before long the Prince’s processor drifted, and he slipped into recharge.

 

He woke as Prowl stirred next to him. The joor was still early, but the Praxian’s Enforcer shifts started early. Jazz decided he was looking forward to the next cycle where they could just recharge. With the fog of recharge still muddling his thoughts, the Polihexian rolled over onto his side and started to push himself up. Prowl pushed him down, one long digited white servo at the centre on his chassis. The Enforcer prince looked down at him, with clear optics. Recharge, even not a full night-cycle’s worth, had done him a world of good.

 

“There is no need for you to rise,” Prowl said, voice sooth and clear. “The Phalanx will be all the guard I need.”

 

“I don’t wanna leave ya on y’re own,” Jazz replied.

 

“Recharge,” the Praxian said. “I do not need supervision or company to fuel. Rest a little longer, and fuel with your originator.”

 

“Wanna start the ‘cycle on yer own, mmm?” The Prince asked.

 

“I would,” Prowl replied. “I intend to meditate.”

 

“I won’t keep ya,” Jazz said. “Safe ‘cycle, Prowl.”

 

“You as well,” the prince said. He hestitated, and Jazz was about to ask him why when the Praxian leaned down and brushed his lips against the corner of Jazz’s mouth. The Polihexian turned his helm, kissing Prowl properly, before the other mech moved back. Prowl’s lipplaces curled up in that barely perceptible smile he favoured. Jazz smiled broadly back up at him, and watched him go.

 

For a few kliks, Jazz considered just going back into recharge, but before even a bream was up, he rose from the berth. Walking softly, he took a seat on the low bench under his window and looked out at the muted garden. Never in his life would he thought he would fuss over another mech, like Predacon in rut. He felt indebted to Prowl, not just for saving his life, but being with him at all, for being willing to help him, and Polihex, when he should have felt nothing but resentment. More than that, Jazz genuinely liked him, and worried for him. There was no way he would be capable of going back to recharge, but at the same time, the Prince knew he could not intrude of his lover’s meditation. Prowl wanted a little space, and it would be a poor show of gratitude if he barged in. Having said that, there were ways to move about the Palace, and to observe the comings and goings of the mechanisms that milled about it.

 

The servant’s entrance to the Royal Berthchamber were locked from the inside, a safety measure Jazz had introduced when he had claimed the suite. Servants could only enter this one room when the Prince left the main door unlocked, this door was not for their use, not anymore. He was perfectly aware that they walked the hidden halls from room to room, doing their work largely unseen, and they were free to use the servant’s door in his sitting room, but Jazz had not been able to imagine recharging knowing just about anyone could come into his berthroom. That very first dark-cycle, he had blocked the door, and the next light-cycle he had installed and encrypted the best lock he had in his possession. Shortly after Prowl had arrived, Jazz had installed a similar lock on the Praxian’s berthroom’s servant entrance, giving him the same level of protection and privacy. These were the only servants doors Jazz knew to be locked, though he would not have been surprised if the Viceroy had some sort of lock on at least the door in his berthroom. Most of the court liked the servants to work unseen, and unheard, an invisible work force, and if the Council knew Jazz had these doors locked off, they would have thought him as paranoid as his origin. They could frag themselves.

 

Standing from the bench, Jazz walked over to the door, hidden behind a floor length tapestry, and entered the keycode. The door slid away, silently and the Polihexian stepped through the narrow opening. Where the public hallways were wide, and opulently decorated, the servant halls were narrow, and the walls smooth, and unadorned. Still, they had been improved upon in the vorns that had passed since Jazz had been a youngling, hiding from his instructors, and his half brother in the somewhat dimly lit passages. When he had been young, the floors had been pockmarked, and uneven. Sometime after he had left Polihex for the final time prior to upgraded into adulthood, the floors had been redone, and new lighting added. It was far safer for the servants who walked them every ‘cycle. Jazz approved of the renovation.

 

Walking the narrow hall, entirely by memory, the Prince made his way around to the throne room. No one was lurking about yet, no guards were stationed inside, at each door. For once, he had the daunting room to himself. He looked around, and looked up. It was meant to be imposing, this room. The raised platform that held his throne, meant to sit him higher than anyone that might seek an audience. Polihex’s court was all about pageantry, and maybe that was why Jazz had managed to keep his helm above the flood so far. Playing a role was something he had been trained to do from the earliest of ages. Infiltration required serious acting chops, and the former saboteur had been a good student.

 

He walked to the window, partially obscured by a tall hedge of hibernating crystals, and look out at the courtyard. The Phalanx was there, not just a single six mechanism team, but a total of twelve guards/Enforcers. Jazz had not asked for the stronger show, it was something the captains must have decided for themselves. Prowl appeared, looking confident and steady, and the Polihexian smiled. In an interesting act of choreography they bowed, six at a time. Prowl seemed startled by the presentation, from the upward tick of his doorwings, but he did not seem too disturbed. As his lover stepped into the centre of the Phalanx, Nightbeat came into few, walking down the steps, stopping at the base of the stares. When the Phalanx left, Prowl well guarded at their centre, the young Praxian did not follow.

 

Jazz turned from the window, more confident now that he had been that his lover would be safe. He jogged from the throne room, and around to the courtyard. Nightbeat was still standing at the base of the steps. His doorwings fluttered as the Polihexian came down the steps and stood beside him. It did not look like Nightbeat had recharged well, but Jazz would not have expected anything else. This was why the Praxian attendant/guard was on leave. Even if he wanted to serve his post, in his present state, the mech was a liability. It probably grated on him though, so the Prince stood next to him, letting him compose himself for a couple of breams before he turned and clapped Nightbeat on the shoulder.

 

“They got’m,” Jazz promised. “Or come Pit, we’d be with’m.”

 

“I feel like a bit of a failure, Serene Highness,” Nightbeat confessed. “Falling apart like this.”

 

“I don’t think y’ve fallen apart,” the Polihexian said. “I think y’re processin’ a hard thing, and I promise ya I wasn’t any better my first time.”

 

“He was going to kill you, or my lord,” the attendant replied. “It shouldn’t bother me.”

 

“Takin’ a life shouldn’t be easy, Nightbeat,” Jazz said. “Even the enemy. It should sit with ya a bit, so ya never do it without ‘cause.”

 

“Maybe... that makes sense,” Nightbeat replied.

 

“Looks like it’s gonna rain again later this ‘cycle,” the Prince observed. “Why don’t ya sit at the communication console while it’s clear ‘n give yer procreators a call? Might be good for ya to talk to’em. Even if ya don’t wanna talk about it. Y’re a long way from home.”

 

“I think I’d like that,” the Praxian replied. “I think that would help. Origin was a border guard for a while, before he meant my ‘genitor. It’d be good to talk to him.”

 

“He’s gonna be proud o’ ya,” Jazz said. “For protectin’ Prowl, ‘n me. He’s gonna be scared ya faced this already, but he’s gonna be proud. ‘N ya deserve it.”

 

“Thanks,” Nightbeat said. “It’s an honour to serve you and Prowl.”

 

“We’re lucky to have ya,” the Polihexian replied. “Take as long as ya need on the comms. Okay?”

 

He was still feeling rough, but Nightbeat would rally. To a degree, he already was. Speaking to his procreators would only help him. Jazz turned, and went back inside. Fuelling with his originator did actually sound like a fantastic start to the mega-cycle, the rest of it would be in dealing with public audience. These were only held two mega-cycles an orn during the Rains, rather than four mega-cycles. It only lasted three joors as well during this season, rather than five. These audiences could be monotonous, some mega-cycles, depending on the grievances brought forward, but they could as be interesting, and engaging. Since Jazz saw real value in engaging with his population, to grow his reputation as a fair and just monarch, it was a duty he did not resent, and did not shirk.

 

Next mega-cycle would be the ornly meeting with the remaining councillors, but with Trip-Up absence, they hoard were less intimidating, and less vocal in their petty complaints. His plan for the coming meeting, was not dissimilar as his plan for the audiences this cycle. The Festival of Mortilus was just around the corner. Most of the planning had taken place throughout the stellar-cycle but there were always details to wrap up in the last orns. It occurred to him that neither his lover or his heroic attendant would have experienced a Polihexian festival, let alone one on the scale of the Festival of Mortilus. Jazz could not involve himself in the actual festival as he might have liked, not while still in mourning, so Prowl would be spared that the festival at it’s fullest extent. But a private celebration was within his rights, and the Master of the Household was making in charge of putting together one for all those who lived and/or worked in the Palace. Not just the court, but all the servants too. He was looking forward to it, the Polihexian thought, with a smile, and he was looking forward to sharing it with his origin and with Prowl.

 

End Chapter 14

 

 

 


End file.
